


Gave Me Faith ('Cause You Believed)

by AgentStannerShipper



Series: Puzzle Pieces [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And a tiny bit of Smut, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Attempted Sex, BAMF Mycroft, Biphobia, But mostly fluff, Cuddling, Eating Disorders, F/M, Greg is frustrated with Mycroft in more ways than one, Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Making Out, Meeting the Family, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, References to Drugs, References to Prostitution, Therapy, Tired Mycroft, and mycroft's too, greg lestrade in a leather jacket is my favorite thing, greg's family is a bit ridiculous, greg's sister loves to embarrass him, implied bisexual molly hooper, massively fluffy chapter three, serious discussions about sex, so much cuddling, very angsty chapter two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10497333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper/pseuds/AgentStannerShipper
Summary: April is an eventful month; two birthday parties...and maybe a couple baby steps that Mycroft's ready to take.





	1. My Strength When I Was Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft meets Greg's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic and chapter titles are from Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion.  
> Wow, sorry it took me like two weeks to update, but in my defense it turned out to be like 17K and I do have a life (this fic series is the only respite I get from it). Chapter two will be a little intermission before Rosie's birthday in chapter three, and I will be adding tags when I update for those chapters. Guys, there is a lot of blatant homophobia and biphobia in this chapter, so read with caution if that could upset you. And Mycroft and Greg's relationship is starting to get...a bit more physical, which is why the rating is higher for this one (I haven't decided how deep into it I'm going to get in later chapters, although opinions are always welcome on that). Anyway, let me know if there's anything else I should tag and I hope you enjoy!  
> As usual, not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any issues.

“You know what?” Greg said. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Mycroft arched his eyebrow. “Not an option,” he responded. “You already agreed to go. Besides, we’re here. It’d be rude to leave.”

Greg sighed, “Fine. But you asked for it.” He braced himself, and then knocked on the door.

Almost instantly, as if she had been waiting on the other side for them, his mother yanked the door open and pulled Greg into a tight hug. “There’s my boy,” she cooed. “Oh, I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mum,” Greg managed. The grip his mother had him in was tighter than some of the criminals he’d grappled.

She released him, smacking his head lightly like she was reprimanding a dog, “Well, if you really missed me it wouldn’t be such a hardship to call more often, would it?” Greg spluttered, but she turned her attention away from him, sizing up Mycroft for a moment before she held out her arms and said, “Well? Come here.”

Mycroft hesitated, looking uneasily at Greg, who rolled his eyes in a manner that he hoped conveyed ‘Just do it and get it over with.’ Tentatively, Mycroft accepted the hug from Patricia Lestrade, wrapping his arms loosely around her shoulders. Much as with her son, she crushed him against her, and Greg could see the way Mycroft’s entire body stiffened. He was about to intercede when Mycroft relaxed again, and Patricia let him go. She kept one hand on his shoulder, looking him up and down before she fixed his gaze with her own, “You’re my Gregory’s boyfriend, then?”

Mycroft nodded, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ma’am me,” she said. “Makes me feel ancient. You can call me Patricia, Patty if you must, but if I catch you calling me ma’am or Mrs. Lestrade then I’ll be very cross with you. Understood?”

“Clearly, Patricia.”

She nodded approvingly. “What’s your name, then?”

“Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes.”

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief at the strange name, glancing at Greg for confirmation. He nodded. “Well,” she said, “welcome to the family, Mycroft. Don’t mind Jack. He’s still in denial about Gregory.” She turned away, ushering them into the house after her.

“Jack?” Mycroft murmured quietly to Greg.

“My father,” Greg responded, leaving out the ‘as if you don’t know.’ Mycroft definitely had his family tree on file somewhere, and while Greg didn’t expect he’d memorized it, he figured Mycroft at least had the names of his immediate family down.

_“You have two siblings, correct?” Mycroft asked casually, ignoring the path Greg was wearing into the living room floor with his pacing. “Daniel and Jennifer.”_

___“What?” Greg asked, pausing for a moment. “Oh, yeah. And Jen’s married, so I’ve got a brother-in-law as well.” He resumed pacing, heart thundering against his chest anxiously, “You sure you still want to go? We could call and say we’re sick.”_

___“You’ve been worrying all week,” Mycroft said. “Do relax. Everything will be fine.”_

___“It’s tomorrow!” Greg exclaimed. “We haven’t talked about it at all. You barely know anything about my family, what conversation topics are off-limits, where you’re supposed to sit at dinner. We haven’t even discussed what you’re going to be wearing.”_

___“A button-down and nice slacks, wherever your mother seats me, politics tends to be a poor conversation starter, and I’m sure your family will love to tell me all about themselves. Most people do.” Mycroft didn’t look the slightest bit fazed. It wasn’t fair. Greg was pretty sure Mycroft was supposed to be the one panicking about meeting Greg’s family, rather than the other way around._

_Greg slumped down onto the couch next to Mycroft, who didn't even look up from his book. He was thrumming with nervous energy that had been building up ever since his mother called. Greg loved his family, but it had been years since he'd had to deal with bringing someone home, particularly a man, and the closer the day got, the more he worried._

_“Where will we be going tomorrow, precisely?” Mycroft asked placidly._

_“I know you’re just trying to distract me,” Greg sulked. “You know exactly where we’re going.”_

_“I do, do I?”_

_“Don’t pretend you didn’t read up on it during my background check when you were making sure I was allowed to be in Sherlock’s life.”_

_“I didn’t need to. It was obvious the moment we met. You have a very distinct accent, my darling. I take it your family still lives in Essex, then?” Mycroft still didn’t look at him, and his voice was infuriatingly casual._

_“Yeah,” Greg sighed. “Well, Mum and Dad do. They still live in the house we grew up in. Jen and her family live out in Bath, and Danny’s all the way in Cardiff ‘cause of his job. I generally only see them once or twice a year, in April and then again ‘round the holidays.”_

_“Is it nice? The house you grew up in?”_

_“Bit small for three kids, but it was alright,” Greg said. He relaxed, exactly as Mycroft had planned, the bastard. Greg slid his hand gently along Mycroft’s thigh towards his knee where he flipped it over and left it palm up. After a moment, Mycroft took it. “It’s strange to think about,” Greg murmured, stroking his thumb over the back of Mycroft’s hand. “While I was busy having a normal childhood, learning to ride a bike and playing footie with the neighborhood boys, you were busy trying to protect Sherlock from your psychopathic little sister.”_

_“To be fair,” Mycroft said, “you would have already been eleven when Eurus was born, and by the time she showed signs of…her condition, you would be well on your way to thinking about university.”_

_“Fair enough,” Greg said. “Still. It sucks that you didn’t get a normal childhood.”_

_“At eighteen months I was speaking more eloquently than most adults, by the age of three I could read without any assistance, and I was able to see a person’s life just by watching their behavior before I reached primary school. With or without Eurus, a normal childhood was never an option for me, Gregory.” If Greg didn’t know better, he would have said Mycroft sounded wistful._

_“You must have done_ some _normal stuff,” Greg said._

_“My parents did needle me into piano lessons,” Mycroft said. “I understand that is a fairly standard practice for children.”_

_“You play piano?”_

_“Not well. Mummy insisted we all be able to play an instrument. Sherlock and Eurus took naturally to the violin, but I was hopeless at it. I was reasonably good at piano, but I fear I’m rather out of practice.”_

_Greg examined their entwined hands, “You have long fingers. Good for piano. You should play for me sometime.”_

_“I guarantee you it will be atrocious.”_

_“I promise I’ll still love you, even if it’s terrible.”_

_Mycroft smiled, finally looking up from his book. “Has the anxiety sufficiently abated, then?”_

_“’Course it has, you prick,” Greg said affectionately, cuddling into Mycroft’s side. “How do you always know just what to say?”_

_“That’s simple, my darling. I know you.”_

Mycroft studied the house carefully. Gregory hadn't been lying about it being small, but it appeared cozy rather than cramped, with inviting butter-yellow walls (most recent painting couldn’t have been more than five years ago) and mismatched furniture. Even just in the entryway and adjoining hallway, dark end tables and an assortment of bookshelves  housing everything  from gardening handbooks to murder mystery thrillers (mostly Patricia’s, although the thick, dusty classics probably belonged to her husband) were crammed into corners, forcing Mycroft and Gregory to weave around them as they followed Patricia down the hall. There were dozens of pictures, mostly displaying various family members, hanging on the walls and propped up in frames on the tables and bookshelves, and Mycroft identified at least three photo albums and one scrapbook by the spines, all of which he decided would need more careful inspection later.

Gregory's mother was interesting. She was nearly a foot shorter than Mycroft, although it hadn't seemed to bother her when she'd dragged him down to her level for a hug, and her thick cockney accent was only slightly more pronounced than Gregory’s (not an Essex native, then, but she’d lived there a very long time). She had the sharp but gentle voice of a mother accustomed to wrangling three unruly children and her eyes were bright with intelligence. Her clothes were casual, not so much that Mycroft felt overdressed (even though he was dressing down by his standards), but enough that he could infer she usually dressed that way and was not about to change just because her children were home. Overall she seemed proud but not conceited. Mycroft decided he liked her.

The end of the hall opened up into two spacious rooms, one on either side. To his right, Mycroft saw a gleaming white kitchen combined with a more rustic dining area. A long, light brown table (white oak, most likely) that looked like it had seen better days was sparsely lined with platters of generic party food, paper napkins, and plastic silverware, and all of the chairs seemed to have migrated elsewhere (presumably the living room or wherever else the guests would be spending the majority of their time). Beyond the dining area, a pair of sliding glass doors displayed an attractive view of a weathered and peeling brown porch and a small suburban backyard filled with the lush green grass that spring was beginning to coax out of the earth.

To his left, the living room did indeed contain the missing chairs, along with two store-bought “Happy Birthday” banners, another bookshelf pressed into the very back of the room, a squishy black couch that probably dated back to Gregory’s childhood, a matching pair of black armchairs, and a large television over a decorative mantel (decorative in that the fireplace below was blocked off and a fake fire lay dormant in its place) adorned with one of the aforementioned banners. A wooden staircase leading up to the second floor was tucked away next to the bookcase. Both rooms were devoid of people.

Gregory nudged Mycroft, who physically felt his brain stutter as it attempted to absorb the information at lightning speed. “Alright?” he asked, concern written across his face. “You look a bit pale.”

“It’s always a bit much, being in a new place,” Mycroft admitted quietly. “I just need a moment to get my bearings.”

Patricia wasn't oblivious to their conversation, but she didn't comment, instead saying loudly and a bit redundantly, “You two are the first ones here. Daniel’s stuck in traffic, so he expects to be late, but everyone else should be trickling in now.”

Gregory kept one hand on Mycroft's shoulder, and Mycroft leaned into the touch. It grounded him. “Where's Dad?” Gregory asked.

“Your father's upstairs. He'll be down any minute.” She gestured towards the living room, “Go on. Make yourselves comfortable.” As an afterthought she added, “Oh, by the way, it turns out your Uncle James can make it this year after all. Isn't that lovely?”

“Terrific,” Gregory said through gritted teeth, and Mycroft frowned, wondering what was so bad about that particular relative to warrant such a severe response.

Patricia disappeared back down the hall as Mycroft and Gregory took a seat together on the couch, which threatened to swallow Mycroft the moment he sat down. Gregory’s expression was a cross between angry and anxious. “Why do you dislike your uncle?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Gregory bared his teeth in a parody of a smile that made something twist in Mycroft's gut. “You can only hear a slur directed at you so many times before you start hating the person saying it,” he answered.

“Ah.” It clicked in Mycroft's head, “He’s also a homophobic relative, then?”

“The frustrating part is that he doesn't even _mean_ anything by it,” Gregory growled. “He couldn't care less who I'm in a relationship with. He just legitimately doesn't get that it's offensive.”

Mycroft then ran his hand soothingly up and down Gregory’s back, knowing physical contact tended to calm Gregory down when he was particularly stressed. “It will be alright,” he murmured. “Your mother seems lovely, and you have me. There are people looking out for you.”

There was the faint sound of the front door opening and indistinct chatter from Patricia and whoever had arrived (at least two new voices, both feminine, although Mycroft couldn’t make out much of the conversation). Both men turned their head towards the doorway when footsteps approached.

“Dad!” One of the girls hurled herself at Gregory, who rose to intercept, wrapping her up in a huge hug and kissing her forehead, laughing. Mycroft remained seated, watching nervously, unsure what to do. Both women were young, blonde, and clearly related, probably early to mid-twenties, and although it was clear that they took after their mother in colouring, much of their bone structure had been inherited from their father. Technically speaking, Mycroft knew both of their names (Emily and Lucy), but he had no idea which name applied to which girl.

Gregory released his daughter and turned to the other one, who wordlessly hugged him with less energy but no less enthusiasm. “It’s been too long, girls,” Gregory said. In the background, Patricia mumbled something indistinct and probably bitingly ironic. Gregory ignored her, “How have you been?”

The younger of the two launched immediately into a tirade about how her roommate was driving her crazy, while the elder rolled her eyes. “We’re fine, Dad,” she said. “Emily just loves to complain about everything.”

“Oi, be nice to your sister,” Gregory said.

Emily, the younger daughter, didn’t seem particularly offended by her older sister’s comment. Her eyes fixed on Mycroft, and she dropped into the chair opposite him, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees and scrutinizing him. Mycroft stared back, abruptly paralyzed with the realization that these were Gregory’s _daughters_. Never in his life had it been so important that someone like him. Perhaps that wasn’t strictly true, but in the moment it was all he could think about.

“Hey,” Gregory said. “Staring’s rude. I thought your mother and I raised you better than that.” He sat down next to Mycroft, although Lucy remained standing.

“You didn’t tell us you were seeing someone,” Emily said accusingly.

Gregory turned a rather attractive shade of scarlet. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

“We know you’re bi,” Lucy said with another eye roll.

“Actually, I was more concerned that you might think I was, I don’t know, betraying your mum or something.”

Mycroft didn’t miss the significant look the sisters exchanged. Clearly, neither was particularly impressed with Amelia Lestrade, despite her being their mother. “Well?” Emily asked finally. “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Right,” Gregory said. “This is Mycroft. We’ve been seeing each other for just over two months now. Mycroft, these are my girls, Lucy and Emily. Lucy works as an accountant in London, and Em’s in school to be a lawyer.”

Mycroft offered a smile, “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. Your father is very proud of you.”

“You’re Mycroft?” Emily asked curiously. “Like Mycroft Holmes?”

Mycroft frowned at Gregory, who blushed a deeper red and studied his knees. “I take it Gregory has mentioned me?”

“A couple of times, yeah,” Lucy said.

“Actually, he talked about you a lot over the past ten years,” Emily added.

“Did he now?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Gregory, not bothering to contain his smirk.

“Some of it may have been exaggerated,” Gregory mumbled.

“He called you a bureaucratic drone once,” Emily said cheerfully, clearly watching for his reaction. “And he talked a lot about how you had a major stick up your arse.”

If Gregory could have become one with the couch, he probably would have. Mycroft forced himself to stifle his amusement. “Well, I won’t deny being a bit uptight,” Mycroft said, “but I do believe Gregory has been helpful in mellowing me out. He has been a good friend for a considerable time.”

“That’s sweet,” Emily smiled serenely. Mycroft didn’t actually let out a sigh of relief, but he felt the urge to. Whatever sort of test this had been, he apparently had passed it.

“Are those my favorite granddaughters I hear?” Footsteps thundered down the stairs and a man who looked very much like an older, heavier version of Gregory landed at the bottom and held out his arms. The girls hugged him briefly.

Gregory stood abruptly, his back straight as a rod, and Mycroft got up too. He was tempted to put his hand on the small of Gregory's back, but he wasn't sure the gesture would be welcome in front of Gregory's apparently homophobic father. “Dad,” Gregory said stiffly, inclining his head respectfully as he stepped forward.

Jack Lestrade shook his son's hand firmly, “You're looking well, Greg. How's the force treating you?”

“It’s all good,” Gregory said. “Hard work, but it's worth it.” He glanced back at Mycroft, looking at a loss. Emily and Lucy were both watching from the sidelines, but neither seemed inclined to step in.

Mycroft took the initiative. He approached Gregory's father and offered out his hand with a calculated smile, doing his best to appear unthreatening and friendly. “My name is Mycroft,” he said politely, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lestrade.”

Jack studied Mycroft with the same intensity as his wife, although his eyes betrayed more animosity than she displayed. Mycroft refused to drop his gaze, and waited until Jack reluctantly took his hand, shaking it firmly. Without letting go, Jack said, “So you’re the man who turned my son into a poof, then.”

Gregory’s eyes closed briefly and he sighed, “For God’s sake, Dad-“

Mycroft cut his boyfriend off, narrowing his eyes at Jack and tightening his grip just enough that he knew the older man would feel it. He dropped the unthreatening act, knowing a power play when he saw one, and put every bit of authority and dominance he possessed into the words when he said, “I haven’t done anything to your son except love him. Whether or not he loves me back is completely of his own accord. Gregory is a good man, and he looks up to you, but I will not hesitate to stand by his side and defend him if his own father decides to tear him down over something as inconsequential as the gender of his romantic partner.”

There was a long moment where no one spoke, but then Jack loosened his grip in a silent display of submission and Mycroft let go of his hand, smiling harshly. “Your mother will probably want my help with something,” Jack muttered, slinking past them into the kitchen.

When he disappeared from sight, Gregory all but launched himself at Mycroft, wrapping his arms around his neck and looking awestruck. “I’m not going to lie,” he said in a low voice. “That? Was incredibly hot.” He kissed Mycroft, until Lucy and Emily both pulled faces and protested.

Mycroft slipped out of Gregory’s arms, his smile broader and real. “I’m sure your daughters would rather not see their father making out with his boyfriend,” he said. “I don’t believe it would much endear me to them.”

“What he said,” Lucy agreed.

“Alright,” Gregory laughed. “Let’s go see if your grandmother really does need help in the kitchen.” He ushered them out ahead of him, pausing for a moment in the doorway and turning back.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, “Yes, Gregory?”

Gregory took a step forward, putting him less than an inch away from Mycroft, who studied his face carefully. It was soft and open and Mycroft could see a dozen different emotions in the slant of his lips and the depths of his eyes, mostly love and gratitude. Gregory pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, then rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Thank me when it’s over,” Mycroft murmured back. “I suspect the battle is far from won.”

“Still,” Gregory said. “You called out my father without being rude. You defended me like it was nothing. I appreciate it.”

“Of course I defended you,” Mycroft said. “I’m your boyfriend. I’m on your side, for as long as you need me.” He ushered Gregory gently backwards, “Now come on. I’m sure your mother will get suspicious if we linger too long.”

“Probably,” Gregory agreed. He ducked into the kitchen and Mycroft followed, hovering in the doorway and watching the domestic scene. Patricia had a spoon in one hand, which she was using to direct her family members around the kitchen like a conductor.

She noticed Mycroft and pointed the spoon at him, “Get in here and help finish setting up. You help or you don’t eat.” She waved towards the fridge, “I’ve got a vegetable dip in there. Be a dear and put it on the table?”

Mycroft obeyed at once. The swarm of bodies around him should have made him uncomfortable, as close contact in a crowd often did, but instead it set him more at ease. Gregory’s family members were chatting quietly amongst themselves, his daughters elbowing each other and giggling as they arranged cheese and ham slices on a platter and set it between two bowls of crisps, Gregory laughing as his mother poked him in the ribs with her spoon and snarked something indistinct. Even Jack was smiling, although he was careful to avoid looking at Mycroft.

A sharp knock sounded, and Patricia made a shooing motion at her husband, “Go and answer it! We’re almost done in here.” Jack did as she requested, and Gregory set the last plate down on the table and bumped Mycroft’s hip lightly with his own.

“Still doing okay?” he asked. “Ready to meet more of the family?” Mycroft nodded. The squeals from down the hall indicated a large group shuffling towards the living room, and Emily and Lucy lead the way to greet the newest arrivals.

“Greg!” the woman in front exclaimed, and she embraced him eagerly. Mycroft was quickly getting used to the fact that the Lestrades were huggers, although he hoped most of them would be too uncomfortable with strangers to turn the gesture on him.

“Hey, Jen,” Gregory squeezed her back. “Hey, Matt. The kids look great.”

“All grown up now,” the man next to Jennifer said. His accent was distinctly American, a New England dialect Mycroft couldn’t quite pin down. “Bri just turned eighteen today, and she hasn’t stopped going on about how she’s a proper adult now.”

Mycroft looked past them to where three young adults were being kissed and pinched by their grandparents. He almost missed Gregory throwing an arm around his shoulder, saying, “I want you to meet my boyfriend, Mycroft. He’s the one I was telling you about.”

Mycroft reflexively extended a hand, but Jennifer shook her head, grinning, “From everything my baby brother’s said, I feel like I know you already, and in this family, we do hugs.” She reached for him, and Mycroft accepted it with minimum discomfort. Fortunately, unlike Patricia, Jennifer seemed to understand that Mycroft wasn’t exactly a hugger, and released him quickly. Her husband, on the other hand, gladly offered his hand for Mycroft to shake.

Jennifer patted Gregory on the shoulder, still smiling like the Cheshire cat, “You finally bagged him, huh? Good for you. You said he was a looker, but he’s prettier than I was expecting.”

The blush returned to Gregory’s cheeks, and he said, “Excuse me. I’m just going to say hi to my nieces and nephew. Try not to embarrass me, okay?” He pushed past them, and Jennifer turned her eyes back to Mycroft.

He raised an eyebrow. “’Finally bagged him?’” he quoted.

“Greg’s been after you for ages,” she returned, clearly relishing the chance to ignore Gregory’s request. “He called me one night when he was drunk, just after he and Amelia split up, and all he did was whine about how attractive you were and how it wasn’t fair because he was pretty sure you’d never give him the time of day. I was actually relieved when he told me you’d started dating. I was about to come to London and tell you myself, because he was too chicken to do it.”

“He needn’t have worried,” Mycroft said. “I was quite enamored with Gregory myself. We both feel it’s quite a shame that we didn’t make our true feelings known sooner. Although I wasn’t aware he had told any of his family that we were involved.”

“Well, he only told me this week,” she admitted. “Phoned me, said he wanted to let me know before Mum beat him to it. But to be honest, I figured he’d finally asked you out, because I stopped getting those annoying phone calls from him whenever he got drunk.”

“I didn’t realize Gregory called you regularly.”

Jennifer shrugged, “Only when he’s sloshed and wants to complain about something. Otherwise it’s pretty much radio silence.” She held out a hand, her husband having wandered off into the living room, “Come on, then. You seem like a decent guy, so I approve, and as Greg’s older sister it’s my job to embarrass him as much as possible.”

Mycroft accepted her hand carefully, “How so?”

She pulled him into the living room, pushing him onto the couch, “Stay there. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hall again, shouldering through the mass of people, and a few seconds later she reappeared, clutching to her chest the handful of photo albums Mycroft had spotted on his way in. She plopped down next to him and laid them in her lap, rubbing her hands together gleefully. “Mum took all sorts of photos when we were growing up,” Jennifer explained, “I mean, she still does, but not as much. There are _tons_ of embarrassing photos that it’s my duty, as the eldest, to share with you.”

“Isn’t perusing through baby photos with new partners usually done by a parent?” Mycroft questioned.

“What, and let Mum have all the fun?” Jennifer shook her head. “No way.” She flipped open the first photo album to about halfway through.

***

Once Greg was done greeting Rachel, Joey, and Brianna, the three kids scampered off to the backyard with Lucy and Emily, presumably still too young to want to hang out with the “real” adults, although, at eighteen, Brianna was the youngest of the cousins and Lucy was the oldest at twenty-six.

Greg meandered back into the living room, where everyone else had retired, and was annoyed but not surprised to see Jen and Mycroft bent over a family photo album, Mycroft laughing at something his sister was pantomiming. She was doing a halfway-decent impression of sitting on a motorcycle, leaning over and making exaggeratingly seductive faces at Mycroft while she whispered what were probably terrible pickup lines in his ear. So she’d gotten to his teen years already. Terrific.

“I see you're getting along, then,” Greg said, pulling a chair close to the couch so he could be across from them without having to shout over the other conversations.

Mycroft looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth. “You never told me you were in a band, Gregory. You let me believe I was the only one with musical talent in this relationship.”

“Okay, first of all,” Greg said, “I sang. I can't play an instrument to save my life, except for one or two songs on the guitar that I learned by ear. That hardly counts as musical talent. Second of all, it was in _high school_. I did a lot of stupid things.”

“I wouldn't call it stupid,” Mycroft said, his eyes flicking deliberately over Greg, who suppressed a shiver at the heat of his gaze. “And you did look stunning in leather.” It was clear from Mycroft's expression that he was imagining Greg now, dressed like he was at eighteen, with his hair slicked carefully into spikes, ripped jeans, and a leather jacket. It had felt cool then. Looking back, Greg was a bit embarrassed, although Mycroft clearly didn't share that opinion.

Jen looked back and forth between them, half amused and half incredulous. “Is the eye sex this bad all the time?” she asked. “Or it just for my benefit?”

“Jen!” Greg protested, looking quickly away from Mycroft. At least this time he wasn't the only one blushing.

“I'm just saying, if you want some time alone, I'm sure Mycroft would love to see the room you slept in as a kid. Really sets the mood, although I'd worry about scarring the rest of your poor family with your moans.” She leaned towards Mycroft and stage-whispered, “He’s always been loud during sex. Imagine living with him as a teenager.” She shuddered dramatically.

“Okay, conversation over,” Greg said emphatically, holding out his hands in surrender. “Christ, Jen, I thought you liked Mycroft.”

“I do!” she protested, wrapping an arm around Mycroft's shoulders as if to prove it. Mycroft looked startled at the abrupt gesture.

“Then stop trying to scare him off!”

“Oh please,” Jen scoffed. “You wouldn’t have brought him ‘round if you didn’t think he was tough enough to withstand the lot of us.” She shook Mycroft gently, “You can handle us, right? I’m not scaring you off?”

“Not currently, although I believe my answer may change if you continue to insist on hugging me,” Mycroft said dryly.

Jen laughed and unwound her arm from his shoulders. “See?” she said to Greg. “He’s good.”

“Hold that thought,” Greg winced, looking out the window as a van roared past and stopped with a screech at the curb. The vehicle was distinctive, painted black with flames racing across the sides as if that would make it look like a cool sports car and not the sort of transport that belonged to dog catchers and kidnappers, present company excluded. Mycroft's cars were much nicer.

Jen followed his gaze, and her face twisted up too. “Well, shit,” she muttered.

Greg glanced at Mycroft, who asked, “Uncle or ex-wife?”

“Uncle,” Greg responded. “Just…don’t punch him, yeah?”

Mycroft gave him a withering look, “You know me better than that. I abhor violence, particularly if I have to commit it.”

“Well then, don’t get him locked up for tax evasion or something, okay?” Greg huffed, bracing himself as the front door swung open and then slammed shut, his uncle not bothering to knock and wait to be let in.

“Patty-cakes!” He sauntered into the living room, “How the hell are you?”

“I’m well, James, and you?” Greg never understood how his mother could be so civil with her brother. James was brash and arrogant, not unlike Sherlock except nowhere near as intelligent. And unlike Sherlock, he didn’t have a companion to tell him when he was being “a bit not good.”

“I’m fine, I’m doing well,” James bobbed up and down on the spot. His hairline was receding badly, and the motion caused the beginnings of a comb over to flap about on his head. James greeted everyone else enthusiastically, pumping Jack’s hand in an exaggerated handshake and then doing the same to Matt with a brief callout and wink to Jen. Then his eyes fell on Greg, who held his breath, his entire body rigid.

“There’s my favorite homo,” James slapped Greg on the shoulder, hard enough that Greg was knocked forward before he righted himself, posture even stiffer than before. “I heard you’d turned queer again.” He grinned at Mycroft, “You must be the boyfriend, then. James Armstrong. I’m Greg’s uncle.” He thrust his hand in Mycroft’s face.

Greg was fairly certain he’d never seen Mycroft look so offended in his life, although his boyfriend was doing an amazing job of keeping a neutral expression. There was a clear, seething hate in his eyes that Greg could only identify from having known Mycroft for ten odd years, but all Mycroft did was quirk his eyebrow and put on his best ‘unimpressed’ face. He pointedly refused to take James’s hand, eyeing it briefly before returning his gaze to James’s face. “Mycroft Holmes.” The ice in just those two words was enough that Greg was tempted to offer to run James a hot bath to treat the frostbite he must have developed from Mycroft’s sheer hostility.

But James, probably from the force of his stupidity, seemed shielded from Mycroft’s ire. He just grinned and dropped his hand, oblivious to the anger radiating off the other man. “You’re a posh one, aren’t you? You’re really stooping below your level with this one here.” He slapped Greg’s shoulder again, although this time he was braced for it and didn’t get knocked over. “Then again, I suppose keeping a live-in fairy’s easier than findin’ a rent boy whenever you feel like a shag.”

Mycroft looked like he was seriously considering breaking his no-violence policy. His hand twitched, balling into a fist on the couch. Greg wondered if he should say something, but he’d never been good at standing up to his family. Mycroft cleared his throat, and Greg recognized the look in his eye. He’d seen it on Sherlock too many times to miss. “Not all of us have to turn to prostitution in order to find someone willing to withstand our company, although considering your shoes I’d say that’s not a position you find yourself in often.” Mycroft’s voice was incredibly mild, but Greg could see the hurricane his boyfriend was holding back.

The tiny comment was enough to startle James, but the man clearly had no sense of self-preservation because instead of backing down, he puffed up and challenged, “It takes one to know one, don’t it?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Greg had to suppress the fond smile the gesture evoked in his chest. Everyone in the room seemed frozen, so silent that Greg could make out the laughter of the cousins outside. “As inspired as your comeback is,” Mycroft said dryly, “it hardly deflects the accusation from you. I’d go so far as to say it confirms it, although if anyone needed further proof all they would have to do is take a sample of the dirt on your shoes and have it analyzed. It’s from a very specific, unsavory part of town, and given how thoroughly it’s worked into the sole, I’d say it’s from repeated visits as opposed to one singular occurrence. You could be going there for business, but you have a desk job, and you don’t leave the office for work, so it must be for pleasure, and since you don’t display any of the signs of a drug addict it must be the sex that draws you there.”

There was another long moment of silence. Matt coughed quietly and excused himself to the kitchen under the premise of getting snacks. James’s expression morphed to one of anger, “What kind of fuckin’ freak are you?” He loomed threateningly over Mycroft.

Very calmly, Mycroft stood up, easily towering several inches over James. “I’m the sort of ‘freak’ who won’t tolerate you making offensive remarks about myself or my boyfriend. You fired first. I merely retaliated in kind.”

James swayed for a moment, and Greg wondered if he was going to have to stop him from throwing a punch, but then he stepped back and sneered, “If this is the sort of queer shit my nephew spreads his legs for, he’d be better off sticking with women.”

“Get out.”

Everyone turned, startled, because Patricia had been the one to speak. Her face was red, but she remained in perfect control when she pointed towards the door. “Every year I invite you here, thinking maybe this time you’ll behave yourself, and on the years you actually bother to show up I’m always disappointed. I try not say anything, because it’s mostly harmless trash, but now you’ve attacked my son directly, and I will not tolerate that in my house.”

“But Patty-cakes-”

“Don’t you Patty-cakes me, James. I want you out of my house now.”

James looked askance at being dismissed so early in the afternoon, but at the firmness of Patricia’s words, he slunk from the room. The door slammed shut loudly behind him and his van screamed down the street. Mycroft was still standing, and the attention of everyone in the room turned back to him. Greg could see the exact moment where his quiet confidence wavered, replaced by sudden uncertainty and shame. “Excuse me,” he murmured, and slipped into the hallway.

Matt poked his head back in, wincing. “It over now?” he asked.

Jen stared at Greg, her eyebrows nearly up to her hairline. He shifted uncomfortably as his mother and father turned to look at him too. “Sorry,” he said roughly, and then followed Mycroft.

***

The tiny garden in front of the Lestrades’ house was not unlike the one outside his parents’ home. Mycroft tapped his foot anxiously, nausea twisting up inside him as his mind replayed his words on a loop. He didn’t know why he’d said any of it. He was used to being the peacemaker, to not letting his emotions get the better of him, but after James had spoken he’d seen red, and everything had just come tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop it. Gregory was going to hate him. His family would probably gently (or not so gently) let him know that Mycroft would no longer be welcome in their house, and that it would really be better if Gregory just broke it off with him altogether. He was going to lose everything.

Mycroft fumbled in his pocket, drawing out the cigarette he’d placed there earlier that morning, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t need it. Before he could light it, he heard the door open and close gently, and footsteps approached. The cigarette was plucked out of his hands, and he lifted his face to meet Gregory’s unamused expression. “I thought we had an agreement about smoking,” Gregory said, his voice carefully neutral. “It makes it really hard for me to quit if you keep doing it, and you agreed it’s bad for your health.”

Mycroft took the cigarette back, considering lighting it anyway before returning it to his pocket in defeat. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m not actually that mad,” Gregory said. “I mean, I get it. You’re on edge. Meeting the family is stressful under any circumstances, and mine is a bit crazier than most. I definitely understand why you would want to have a smoke.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mycroft said. “I _am_ sorry about that, but that’s not…” He sighed. “I wanted to make a good impression on your family, and instead I insult your father and reveal in front of everyone that your uncle is visiting prostitutes.”

“To be fair,” Gregory pointed out, “the kids were all outside, so it wasn’t in front of everyone.”

Mycroft looked away, shame roiling in his stomach. Gregory reached out and took his hand. “Hey. Look at me.” He waited until Mycroft obeyed before continuing, “You didn’t insult my father. He may not like you for what you said, but he’ll respect you for sticking up for me and not backing down. And _no one_ in my family likes Uncle James. In fact, you might have earned a couple extra points with my dad for tearing him apart like that. Why Mum keeps inviting him to these things I’ll never know. You could have been a bit more subtle about it, but all you did was get the argument out of the way first instead of me having to wait until after dinner for him and Mum to have their row. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Gregory’s words should have eased the turmoil of emotions that Mycroft struggled to tamp down, but all they did was make it worse. “Your uncle is correct,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I am...a freak. I promised myself I wouldn’t deduce your family and I broke that promise.”

“Hey,” Gregory pulled Mycroft to him, keeping one hand on Mycroft’s and lifting the other to cup his face. “You’re not a freak any more than Sherlock is, and if I don’t let my team call him that then I’m definitely not going to let my gorgeous, amazing, _brilliant_ boyfriend call himself that. Understand?”

Mycroft was taken aback by the intensity of Gregory’s sincerity. He scanned his boyfriend’s face, looking for any trace of deception, but there was none. “You truly believe that.”

“‘Course I believe that,” Gregory said. He released Mycroft’s face, but kept ahold of his hand. “It’s what I’ve been saying all along, isn’t it? I love you, Mycroft, and that includes every part of you.”

The storm inside Mycroft abated somewhat and he took a deep breath. “I am trying,” he murmured, “but I cannot seem to understand how it is possible that someone as good as you loves someone like me.”

“You don’t have to understand it, love,” Gregory said. “Just trust that it’s true, alright?”

“I’m certainly doing my best,” Mycroft responded.

Gregory squeezed his hand. “Good. Ready to go back inside now?”

The panic returned like a shot. “Are you sure they want me back?” he asked.

“A little drama happens at every family get-together,” Gregory assured him. “No one’s going to care too much. Although I think Jen has some questions for you.” He paused, “Actually, I have one. How the hell did you recognize the dirt on his shoes?”

“You’ve seen Sherlock do it before. It’s not that unusual.”

“I’ve seen Sherlock do it for places he’s been before,” Gregory returned. “Otherwise he needs a lab for analysis.”

“Well, I am the smart one.”

“Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s stomach turned unpleasantly, “Can’t you deduce it yourself, Gregory? You know exactly why I’ve been there.”

“Sherlock?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded. “Just the drugs, as far as I’m aware, although I have had doubts in the past.”

“Somehow, Sherlock doesn’t strike me as the type to hit up prostitutes,” Gregory’s voice indicated he thought he was making a joke.

Mycroft shook his head. “That’s never been my concern.”

“Oh.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft looked at the ground. “I’ve never had any proof, nor is there any indication that he ever has, but he was high and desperate enough to do it, and I couldn’t have my eyes on him twenty-four-seven. A big brother does worry.”

“Shit,” Gregory breathed.

Mycroft cleared his throat, putting on his most charming fake smile, “But that’s not quite appropriate conversation for the current circumstances, is it? Shall we go back inside?” He could tell that Gregory wasn’t quite buying his abrupt shift in mood, but his boyfriend didn’t question it, just led him back by the hand. Mycroft was grateful. Talking about Sherlock’s sordid past always evoked an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Mycroft’s stomach, and there was enough discomfort there as it was. The shame had not entirely faded away, and Mycroft suspected it would linger for the rest of the evening.

As he ushered Mycroft through the door, Gregory muttered, “Drama’s probably not over for the evening. Amelia and her _boyfriend_ haven’t even shown up yet.” The slight sarcasm on the word ‘boyfriend’ told Mycroft all he needed to know about what he thought of Amelia’s plus-one.

The snacks had been ravaged while they were outside; the cousins had come in and were balancing paper plates on their laps as they found seats wherever there was an open chair. Gregory rubbed Mycroft’s back lightly and murmured, “I’m going to get something to eat,” before leaving him in the hallway. Mycroft hesitated, and then went into the living room, head held high and face composed as he slipped into a corner, leaning against the wall and watching the rest of the room. He could see Jack eyeing him from his armchair, and when he caught Mycroft looking he inclined his head, expression curiously devoid of the discomfort he’d displayed earlier.

“Dad likes you,” Jennifer commented, startling Mycroft as she sidled up next to him, holding a paper plate loaded with carrots and dip in one hand and a beer in the other.

“I’m not sure ‘like’ is the appropriate word,” Mycroft answered.

Jennifer shook her head, “Nope. He likes you. He’s probably still not thrilled you’re not, you know, a woman, but you got James kicked out way before Mum usually does it. Hell, we should be celebrating you too.” She contemplated that a moment, taking a swig of her beer. “Your birthday isn’t in April, is it?”

“October, sorry.”

“Damn.” She laughed, “Ah, well. Probably better that way. Too many April birthdays as it is. I hate having to share.”

Mycroft surveyed the room, “Other than you and your daughter, we’re celebrating your father and...your brother Daniel’s birthdays as well, correct?”

“Both of my daughters, but otherwise spot on. Greg tell you that, or are you guessing?”

“Gregory never specified, but I didn’t need to guess. It was obvious.”

Jennifer appraised him. Mycroft wondered if he was going to keep getting that look all night. “So how do you do it?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“That...I dunno, magical seeing thing. Greg said you were smart, but that’s some next level shit.” She  waved the hand with the beer in it loosely, but not hard enough for it to slosh out of the bottle.

“It’s far from magical,” Mycroft said. Explaining how he saw everything he did was often tedious and not worth his time, especially when people were most likely going to continue thinking he was just performing some sort of trick regardless of his explanation, but Jennifer seemed legitimately interested, and if she was anything like her brother then she would believe him and maybe even apply it. Few things made Mycroft as warm inside as when Gregory turned his deductions back on him. “I see everything you do,” Mycroft explained to Jennifer, “but I know how to make connections between that information and the conclusions I can draw from them.”

“Like that our sleazy uncle’s been getting his rocks off with prostitutes,” Jennifer commented.

Mycroft felt his cheeks flame, and he swallowed hard, “Quite.”

Jennifer nudged him, “Hey, don’t worry about it. Tell me more about how you figured it out.” She paused, “better yet, do me.”

“Not sure what I just walked in on,” Gregory said, arriving in their corner and putting his free arm around Mycroft’s waist possessively, “but I don't appreciate you monopolizing my boyfriend like this, Jen.”

“I was just asking Mycroft about how he sees stuff,” Jennifer said, looking at her younger brother with exaggerated, innocent eyes.

Gregory nodded, “His deductions. Yeah, I told you he was clever.” He let go of Mycroft and offered him the plate. Mycroft went to shake his head, but Gregory said, “I know you’re probably not hungry, but just have a couple pieces of fruit or something, okay? For me?”

Mycroft relented. He really wasn’t hungry, but he also hadn’t eaten much that day, too busy trying to hide his anxiety from Gregory to relax enough to eat a proper breakfast. His boyfriend had been worried enough for the both of them, and Mycroft hadn’t wanted to contribute to it. He picked a strawberry off of Gregory’s plate and popped it in his mouth with a pointed ‘I’m doing what you asked’ look.

Jennifer didn’t comment on the exchange. She just said, “So? You going to do it or what?”

“I’m not sure I should,” Mycroft said reluctantly.

“Oh, come on,” Jennifer grinned. “It’ll be fun. But nothing I’ve already told you. That’d be cheating.”

Mycroft glanced at Gregory, still unsure. Gregory nudged him gently, “Oh, go on. She’s asking for it, and I know you like being clever.” It was true. He was nowhere near the prima donna Sherlock was, but occasionally Mycroft did enjoy an audience. Mycroft turned back to Jennifer, studying her critically in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to do all afternoon.

“You dyed your hair last week,” he said, “but you got it done at a new place, and not one you’ll be returning to. Now that your eldest child is about to leave the nest you’re preparing to convince your husband to buy a dog to fill the empty house, although you’re not sure he’ll agree to it because you both work fairly long hours. And you’re wearing shoes that you’ve had for quite a while but never worn before, probably a gift from someone in this house, I’m guessing either Patricia or your husband, although he is the more likely candidate.”

“Alright,” Jennifer nodded, looking impressed. “Spot on. Now tell me how you know.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise at how calm she was. Normally his deductions were met with an attitude closer to what James had displayed. At his silence, Jennifer prompted, “Well? It’s only really clever if you can tell me how you know. Just making guesses that happen to be right-”

“I didn’t guess,” Mycroft interrupted her. Gregory grinned, and Mycroft shot him a look. He continued, “I know you dyed your hair last week because it’s not your natural colour. Not only does it not match the pictures of you I’ve seen today, but your roots are showing unevenly in places, which is also how I know you got it done at a new place which you will not be returning to. If you care enough about it to get it done regularly, you would not willingly go back to a place that did not satisfactorily do the job. The dog is obvious; your youngest just turned eighteen and should be preparing to leave the house, and empty nest syndrome is common among parents, especially of multiple children. Often the solution is to fill that void with an animal. When we were looking at the photo albums, you spoke wistfully about how you never had a dog growing up, and you glanced at your husband while you were speaking. That tells me you haven’t asked him yet but you’re considering it. You’re worried he’ll say no because of your work schedules, which are easy enough to deduce because I heard Matthew mentioning the long hours to Jack when they were speaking earlier. Finally, the shoes are simple. They’re clearly not broken in because you have a very slight limp and you’re bleeding where the back of the shoe is digging into your foot, and you’ve had them for a long time considering the crease down the side where they were pressed into the box in the back of your closet. I’d say gift, given that you’re choosing to dig them out after all this time; people tend to only do that when they feel pressure to show they appreciate the sentiment of the gift. They could be from Patricia, given that she is your mother and likely to have given you a present not quite to your taste, as most mothers tend to do, but I think they’re from your husband because partners are much more likely to give shoes as a gift than parents. Simple observations.”

“Yeah, he calls it simple,” Gregory nudged him again, and Mycroft helped himself to another piece of fruit, savoring the burst of sweetness on his tongue.

“Observation is a key skill in your line of work,” he retaliated. “With enough training, you should be able to see it too.”

“I’m not a genius, love,” Gregory reminded him. “All the training in the world couldn’t make me as good as you.” He had a dorky grin that Mycroft could only describe as sappy, and he leaned in to kiss Gregory lightly.

“I can’t tell if you two are cute or sickening,” Jennifer said, but her voice was cheerful.

“We’re adorable,” Gregory responded, equally cheerfully. He pressed a smacking kiss to Mycroft’s cheek.

“I’m going to see if my kids think I’m still cool enough to talk to,” Jennifer lifted her bottle in a sort of farewell salute. “You two don’t cause a scene, at least not until Amelia gets here. Then, feel free to, because I live for the drama.” She winked at them and sauntered off.

“When _is_ Amelia going to make her appearance?” Mycroft asked. He subconsciously reached for his pocket watch before he realized it wasn't on him at the moment. He smoothed down the front of his shirt to cover the motion. “It’s getting a bit late to be considered on time.”

Gregory glanced at his watch, “Well, she's about five minutes away from fashionably late, and she does like to make an entrance. Likes the attention.”

“She certainly does,” Mycroft muttered under his breath. Jealousy was a ridiculous emotion, especially considering Gregory's obvious disdain for his ex-wife, but he couldn't entirely suppress the twinge of it in his chest.

His comment was not lost on Gregory, who said pointedly, “And she's going to be so disappointed when she finds out that a mysterious, captivating man has swept in and stolen it all away from her.”

Mycroft smiled, and Gregory grinned and hand-fed him a strawberry, swiping his thumb lightly across Mycroft's lips and then following it with a kiss. Without separating more than a few millimeters, Mycroft murmured, “I think your family is going to be quite disgusted with us before the night is through.”

“Nah,” Gregory whispered. At this distance, Mycroft could feel the heat of his body, the little puffs of air as Gregory's breathing became faster and more shallow, and the way his pulse picked up when Mycroft slid his hand down Gregory's arm to his wrist. “I think Jen might be actively rooting for us to sneak away for a quick shag, just so she can tease me about it.”

“Is that something you frequently do when you bring new partners home?” It was definitely jealousy. As irrational as it was, it bothered Mycroft that other people, multiple other people, had been with his boyfriend before him. It wasn't an issue with sex, precisely, but the idea that anyone else had known Gregory on an intimate level, physically or emotionally, flared a possessive anger he hadn't realized he could feel.

Gregory, of course, noticed the shift, and assured him, “It's not like I brought that many people home, and the only one I ever snuck off with was Amelia, and we both know how that turned out. It's different with you. I'm not going to bollocks this up for...well, if I can help it.”

Mycroft stroked his hand up and down Gregory's arm, “You've been very patient with me. I know it can be difficult, but I promise I'm working on it.”

“Take all the time you need,” Gregory said reflexively, but Mycroft was far from stupid. He knew frustration when he saw it, and while he appreciated Gregory's patience, he also understood that his boyfriend had needs. Gregory wasn't David. Mycroft wasn't about to roll over just because Gregory wanted him, but he also didn't want to prolong the wait. After all, he did want it too, in an abstract sense at least. It was the application of the concept where the trouble lay.

“Soon,” he promised quietly, both to himself and his boyfriend. Gregory caught his hand and threaded their fingers together. Mycroft would never admit it, but that was probably his favorite when it came to Gregory initiating physical contact. The gentle pressure of his hand gave Mycroft a sense of being connected to something when all too often it felt like he was worlds away from everyone else, and all it took was a light squeeze to communicate more than words could say.

So naturally it was that moment that Amelia Lestrade made her entrance.

She was preceded by Patricia's cooing, loud enough to be heard down the hall, “Oh, I'm so glad you made it! I was starting to worry you weren't coming!”

There was a light laugh in response, “I wouldn't miss your party for the world, Patty, you know that.”

Mycroft felt the tension ripple through his body, but he didn't back away from Gregory. He did, however, turn towards the doorway to get his first in-person look at Gregory's ex-wife.

His surveillance photographs really didn't do her justice; Amelia Lestrade was a beautiful woman. Her hair was long and hung in gentle waves, naturally blonde without a hint of gray even though she was the same age as Gregory. Her face was a bit lined, but it didn't detract from her beauty. Instead, it enhanced it, giving her an inviting, experienced appearance. She moved with grace, despite her unnecessary heels. Mycroft suppressed his anger, stomach churning in disgust. He could easily see how Gregory had been drawn in and it repulsed him.

Hanging off Amelia's arm and looking very out of place was a young man, probably in his late thirties, with thick brown hair and glasses. He looked every bit the quintessential schoolteacher. When Lucy and Emily greeted their mother, they both avoided looking at her arm candy. With their body language, Mycroft didn’t have to recognize him from surveillance footage to know they were former students of his.

“Tim Jones,” Gregory muttered, as if reading Mycroft's mind. “Both girls had him for maths in high school.”

“She does seem to have a type,” Mycroft said dryly.

“Maybe if I'd been a teacher she wouldn't have felt the need to sleep around.”

“Definitely not,” Mycroft murmured. “She's currently seeing one of his colleagues behind his back. I don't think there's a change you could have made to yourself that would have satisfied her.”

“How do you know she's cheating on him?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, “You were married to her for over twenty years. I wasn't about to drop surveillance just because you'd gotten divorced. There were several indicators that you were considering going back to her.”

“Not seriously, though,” Gregory pointed out.

“Seriously enough.”

“Greg!” Amelia had wound her way over to their corner of the room. “I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” Mycroft wished he could call her voice grating, but it was sweet and soothing like honey.

“Amelia.” Gregory's smile was as forced as his pleasant tone. “And Tim. I'm sure you remember me. You taught my girls back when Amelia and I were married. Nice to see you again.”

Tim looked awkward and kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “Hey,” he muttered.

Amelia's eyes flickered to Mycroft and her smile fell slightly. She recovered quickly, “And you are?”

Mycroft gave her a cold smile. “Mycroft Holmes. I'm Gregory's boyfriend.” He raised their joined hands slightly, enough to catch her attention, then deliberately softened and looked adoringly in Gregory's direction, sighing like he was love-struck, “Honestly, I can't imagine how you ever let him go. We've only been together a few months and already I can't imagine my life without him in it.”

Gregory looked taken aback by Mycroft's over-the-top display, but he schooled his expression, putting on a matching sappy grin, “Aw, sweetheart, I love you too.”

“I love you more,” Mycroft pulled him in for a slow, lingering kiss. He felt fully satisfied when Gregory melted against him, dropping his hand to cradle the back of his neck.

Amelia cleared her throat. “I'll just find your sister,” she said. “Still have to say hi to her, you know. Introduce her to Tim.” She backed away awkwardly as Mycroft continued to draw the kiss out, waiting until she had fled before he allowed Gregory to pull away, not that his boyfriend was complaining. Gregory looked completely dazed, and Mycroft was certain his vacant grin was no longer faked.

“What the hell was that?” he asked when his ex-wife was out of earshot, although he sounded far from upset.

“Mmm, just making a point,” Mycroft smiled at him serenely.

“Yeah?” Gregory asked. “What point would that be?”

“That Amelia is a fool who doesn’t appreciate what she’s missing,” Mycroft said simply. “And that I fully intend to take advantage of her folly.”

“If that’s you taking advantage of me, feel free to do it whenever you like,” Gregory winked at him.

“I do have to say,” Mycroft looked out to where Amelia was hanging on Jennifer’s arm, laughing at something while Jennifer smiled at her, “I was expecting a bit...more.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You promised me a fit from her, but she seems to be taking it rather in stride. That you’re with a man, I mean.”

“Oh,” Gregory shrugged. “She knows who you are. Like Emily said, I did talk about you at home back when we were just...friends who met up occasionally to talk about your annoying little brother. I think she’s probably surprised that I chose to date you, of all people. She might not even believe we’re really a couple.”

“After that performance, there’s no doubt in her mind,” Mycroft said confidently.

“You seem surprisingly interested in causing drama with my ex-wife,” Gregory pointed out. “I’d have thought you’d want to avoid it, considering how much the spotlight’s been on you today.”

Mycroft flushed at being called out. “I may be a tiny bit...jealous of her.”

“Really?” Gregory raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because she had you,” Mycroft answered, aware he was turning a darker shade with every word.

“And now _you_ have me,” Gregory responded. He pecked Mycroft’s lips again in a chaste kiss. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that,” Mycroft said. “This isn’t me doubting our relationship. I just find myself being somewhat...possessive of you.” His voice dropped in volume as he said it, the admission pushing the colour in his cheeks well past the auburn of his hair.

“I see,” Gregory’s voice dropped too, not in volume but in pitch. “I didn’t realize that was a thing with you.”

“Neither did I.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Gregory’s eyes were dark, but his grin was playful, “I think I like it when you’re possessive of me. And I’m definitely not going to complain if you feel the need to express it with copious amounts of physical contact. You know. To piss off my ex-wife.”

“Mmm, down boy,” Mycroft admonished, but he couldn’t deny the appeal. “Your family is here.”

“That’s not stopping her,” Gregory nodded in Amelia’s direction, and Mycroft looked to see that Amelia was no longer standing, but sitting on the couch as she spoke to Lucy. Or rather, she was sitting in Tim’s lap while he sat on the couch. Her daughter was clearly uncomfortable as she avoided looking directly at her mother, addressing everything just over Amelia’s shoulder.

“We’re not stooping to her level,” Mycroft responded haughtily, but he couldn’t deny he was considering it.

They were interrupted by Patricia, who announced to the living room at large, “Daniel’s home!” With one hand she clutched the forearm of a man who looked just a few years older than Gregory. There was a clear family resemblance, but Daniel’s face was narrower and his hair was a good deal longer and pulled back into a ponytail. He hadn’t inherited the gene, it seemed, that had turned Gregory’s hair gray before he’d hit thirty-five, as his was still a rich chocolate brown despite being the elder brother.

Gregory backed away from Mycroft slightly, as if abruptly aware of how close they had been standing. Patricia turned Daniel loose, and he said his hellos. Gregory pulled him in for a hug and patted him on the back when it was his turn, “How’ve you been, Danny?”

Daniel shrugged, “Can’t complain. Business isn’t too bad, and at this rate we’re expecting to break even, which is pretty good considering it’s only our second year.” _Baker_ , Mycroft’s mind supplied helpfully. Flour around the hems of his pants. “What about you?” he continued. “How’s life been treatin’ you?”

“Work is crazy as ever but we’re managing,” Gregory said. He put on hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, “This is Mycroft, my boyfriend.”

Daniel’s eyebrows arched in surprise, and Mycroft braced himself, offering his hand out weakly. Daniel knocked it away, instead drawing Mycroft in for a hug even tighter than Patricia’s had been. “Welcome to the family!” Daniel said. “You must be a big deal if Greg’s bringin’ you to meet us now. You can’t have been together that long.”

“It’s been about two months,” Gregory said. “I was going to tell you before you showed up, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“Two months!” Daniel shook his head. “Did you at least tell Mum?” When Gregory looked sheepish, he laughed, “No wonder she’s been pitchin’ a fit. Every year I get the same spiel about how I’ll be alone forever and maybe there’s someone I work with that might be nice to start a relationship with, but this year she went above and beyond. Maybe one day she’ll get that I’m really just not looking for a relationship. I’m happy on my own.”

“Daniel’s aromantic,” Gregory explained to Mycroft. “I get shit from Dad, he gets shit from Mum.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the term. In fact, he’d spent part of his life wondering if it applied to him, back before he’d realized just how desperately he wanted a partner to share his life with. He swallowed, looking for something more to say. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

Daniel waved it off, “She’s not bad or anything. She just doesn’t understand. I’m glad Greg found you, though. After he and Amelia split it was like he kind of gave up. Greg doesn’t really do ‘single’ well. Got too much love to give, this one.” He ruffled Gregory’s hair affectionately.

Gregory turned red. “Did you and Jen make a pact to embarrass me? Is that what this is?”

“Nah,” Daniel grinned. “You’re the baby of the family. It’s our job.” He waved at Mycroft, “Speaking of Jen, I’d better say hi to her before she accuses me of playing favorites. It was good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Mycroft nodded.

Daniel walked away, and Gregory said, “Well, that’s all of them. You’ve officially met the entire family. What’d you think?”

“Not nearly as frightening as you implied,” Mycroft answered. He smiled fondly out at the room, full of people who seemed perfectly at home with each other. “Other than your ex-wife, I do believe I could grow accustomed to seeing them.”

“I’m glad,” Gregory didn’t have to fake looking besotted. Mycroft wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his boyfriend so obviously in love and happy.

Patricia chose that moment to start ushering people into the kitchen. “Daniel’s here,” she said. “Now we can eat dinner!”

“Hope you’re hungry now,” Gregory murmured. “Mum won’t be happy if you don’t eat whatever she’s made.”

Mycroft considered it for a moment, and then decided that he was hungry enough to eat a small plate. Keeping in mind what Gregory had said earlier about Amelia and Mycroft being possessive, he looped his arm through Gregory’s, holding onto him with both hands as they made their way towards the kitchen.

***

There were far too many of them to all fit around the kitchen table, so dinner was very informal. Greg wound up in one of the armchairs, balancing a plate of his mother’s roast beef on one leg and Mycroft on the other. His boyfriend had decided that the two of them really could fit in one chair, and had settled himself half in Greg’s lap. It wasn’t the easiest way to eat dinner, but Greg was far from complaining. The vicious glances Amelia kept shooting him were only a bonus.

Greg would have been lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the contact. Mycroft wasn’t particularly demonstrative in public, preferring to keep touches brief and kisses confined to brief pecks. Greg, on the other hand, was a physically affectionate person, and it manifested in hugs and kisses and holding hands and he didn’t really care whether they were in public or not. It wasn’t like he was doing anything indecent, so he figured it didn’t matter. But Mycroft was clear on where he stood with that, so Greg let him set the boundary and he respected it. The fact that Mycroft was actually initiating so much contact outside of their home and in front of Greg’s family, no less, felt just shy of a miracle, and Greg fully intended to enjoy every moment of it.

“So what is it you do for work?” Patricia asked Mycroft curiously.

Mycroft smiled politely, “I work for the British Government. It’s a very minor position, mostly paperwork. I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details. Gregory tells me you were a nurse before you retired. That must have been exciting.” Greg was a bit in awe of his boyfriend’s ability to tell a half-lie and then immediately deflect without it sounding like he was avoiding the question. He probably should have been uncomfortable with Mycroft’s ease of lying, but Greg just felt affection bubbling comfortably in his chest.

“Oh, not really,” Patricia said. “It was a lot of sticking people with needles and having the more forward ones flirt with me. That’s how I met Jack, actually.”

“Oh?” Mycroft leaned forward in interest, and Greg reflexively wrapped an arm around his waist to steady him.

“Yes,” Patricia smiled lovingly towards her husband. “A big, strong man walked into my office, all bravado and swagger, and he winked at me and said he’d show me a real nice time if I let him. Of course, I didn’t pay him much mind, I got loads of boys like him all the time, but then I got ready to give him a shot and he burst into tears before the needle even touched him. Terrified of it, he was.” Jack grumbled under his breath, but he was also smiling. “So I told him that if he was brave and didn’t cry, I’d let him take me out for an ice cream. Well, that sobered him right up and he let me give him the shot and I let him take me out and he was a right gentleman once I got to know him, and the rest is history. We settled down, had three beautiful children and five wonderful grandchildren, and here we are.” She patted Jack’s arm.

Greg had heard the story before, and like most children he was skeptical of some of the more romanticized details, but he was also certain that it was the truth. Mycroft looked convinced at any rate, “That’s a lovely story.”

“What about you two?” she asked. “How did you and Gregory meet?”

Greg and Mycroft exchanged looks. They’d expected this question.

_“You know my mum’s going to want to know how we met, right?” Greg asked. He dropped down onto the bed next to Mycroft, hair still dripping from his shower._

_“I suspected it would come up, yes,” Mycroft responded._

_“What do you want to tell her?”_

_“I assumed you wanted to tell her the truth.”_

_“Yeah,” Greg said, “but the truth is a little...weird.”_

_“Oh? I was under the assumption that it was commonplace for couples to meet through kidnapping one of the parties because he had been associating with the other’s addict little brother.”_

_Greg jabbed him in the side, making Mycroft squirm and bat his hand away, “The sarcasm is not needed.”_

_“Agree to disagree,” Mycroft smirked at him._

_Greg sighed, “It’s not that I have an issue with how we met, because it’s definitely an interesting story, but I’m not sure it’s the best story to tell my parents.”_

_“So abridge it,” Mycroft said. “Keep the essence of the story, emphasize different details-”_

_“Lie.”_

_“It’s not lying,” Mycroft argued. “It’s just...stretching the truth a bit.”_

_Greg considered it. On the one hand, he didn’t want to lie to his parents, but on the other hand telling them the truth could be complicated. Not even Amelia and his girls knew the actual story. Mycroft was right, as usual. Somewhere in the middle was probably best._

“It’s a bit weird,” Greg said, “but we actually met about ten years ago. Sherlock Holmes, you know, the one in the papers? He’s Mycroft’s little brother. He ended up helping my team with some cases, and I met Mycroft through him. Showed up asking about my ‘intentions’ with Sherlock. Pissed me off, really. But we ended up being friends, meeting up to talk about Sherlock and stuff, and then one day it just sort of clicked for us that we didn’t want to just be friends, and we started dating.” He squeezed Mycroft’s waist gently, smiling up at him, “It took a hell of a ride to get here, but I’m glad we finally did.” Far from a lie, just without all the juicy details.

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Patricia gushed. “Building a relationship on a strong foundation of friendship, now that’s the way to do it. Infatuation and passion, those come and go, but a good solid love like that lasts a lifetime.” She smiled over at Amelia, “What about you? How did you and Tim meet?”

To her credit, Amelia didn’t blush or stammer, but she did look a touch embarrassed when she said, “Well, there’s not much story to tell. Tim taught Emily and Lucy when they were in high school, so I met him through that, and we reconnected recently.”

Greg could tell that Mycroft wanted to say something smug, so he pinched him lightly in warning. Mycroft shot him a reproachful look but remained silent.

There was more casual chatter over dinner, but Greg wasn’t aware of most of it because Mycroft decided to engage in a silent war with Amelia. As if aware her relationship story was lackluster in comparison, she decided to compensate by being extra affectionate with Tim, who mostly just looked lost and remained silent unless he was asked a direct question. She put a lot of effort into stroking his chest, leaning all over his shoulders, and giggling whenever he said anything. Once, Greg had found those things charming about her, but now all he felt was pity and disgust. Mycroft, however, seemed to have gotten it in his head that Amelia was his enemy and needed to be beaten at her own game, so Greg was subjected to kisses pressed to his cheek, temple, neck, and shoulder, Mycroft’s hands massaging the back of his neck gently and carding through his hair, and a very liberal application of Mycroft’s pet name for him, all of which were not unwelcome but did make Greg a touch worried about the company they were in, considering that Mycroft alternated between lavishing affection of Greg and having a very in-depth conversation with Emily about her experiences in law school and Mycroft’s connections to lawyers through his work.

He held out until everyone had started getting up to clear their plates, and then tapped Mycroft’s hip. “Alright, up you get,” he said. “Want to pop out for a bit of fresh air?” Greg put on his best policeman voice as he said it, making it clear to Mycroft that it was not a suggestion. Mycroft acquiesced wordlessly, and once both of their plates were in the dishwasher Greg guided him outside with a firm hand on the small of his back.

He slid the glass door shut behind them as they stepped out onto the porch and waited until they reached the railing, mostly out of the sight of the rest of the family, to turn to his boyfriend and say, “What the hell, Mycroft?”

Mycroft had the nerve to look completely innocent, “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.” Greg took a deep breath, the cool air calming him down as it flooded his lungs. “Under any other circumstances, I’d be thrilled if you decided to get this handsy, and I know I did sort of encourage it, but right now we are at my parents’ house, you were only doing it in the first place because my _ex-wife_ was there, and you were doing it while talking to my _daughter_. My daughter, Mycroft. There’s being affectionate and a bit over-the-top but harmless, and then there’s forcing me to fight to not get an erection in front of my daughter because you’ve decided to practice making hickeys on my neck.”

“I wasn’t doing it _that_ hard,” Mycroft mumbled, but he looked properly chastened, and Greg softened.

“Don’t think I’m blaming you, love,” Greg assured him. “That’s not what this is, and I definitely encouraged you, so if anything we’re both at fault. I just wanted to warn you to back off a little. I know you don’t like Amelia, and I don’t like her either, but you don’t have to challenge her at every turn, especially like that. Okay?”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg wrapped an arm around his waist. Mycroft tucked himself into Greg’s side, the line of his body a sharp contrast of heat to the brisk evening air. Darkness had started to fall during dinner, bathing the yard in royal blue moonlight.

Behind them, the door slid open and closed again with a sharp snap. The two men turned to see Amelia without her arm candy, the porch light illuminating her like an angel as it shone off her golden hair. Her arms were crossed, and the pleasant smile she’d had on inside was noticeably absent. “Glad I caught you out here,” she said, sounding anything but.

Greg sighed, “What do you want, Amelia?” He’d wondered if she was going to get confrontational at some point during the night.

She jabbed a finger in Mycroft’s direction, “You think I don’t know what he’s playing at, throwing himself at you like that and trying to make me look bad?”

“No one’s trying to make you look bad,” Greg said. “Mycroft was just-“

“I can speak for myself, Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted him. He gave Amelia one of the most shark-like smiles Greg had ever seen grace his features, “I may have gotten a bit carried away, but all I was doing was showing affection for Gregory. He’s a lovely man, and I am _very lucky_ to have him in my life. Anyone would be.”

Amelia wasn’t stupid, and she didn’t miss the jab. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I wouldn’t dream of doing anything that might cost me the love of one of the only truly good men I’ve ever had the fortune of meeting. Like cheating on him, for example.”

Greg winced. It was a bit on the nose, even for Mycroft, and although she wasn’t undeserving, he still felt a pang of sympathy for Amelia at being on the receiving end of Mycroft’s anger.

“Oh, like you weren’t trying to turn him the entire time we were married,” she snapped. “Just friends, hah. I can’t believe Patty swallowed that shit. I bet you two were screwing from the moment you met, the way you can’t keep your hands off him.”

“I never would have betrayed you like that!” Greg objected. He wasn’t perfect, but as far as he was concerned, cheating was one of the worst qualities you could find in a partner, just shy of being actually abusive. Especially cheating like Amelia had done: repetitively and done without guilt.

“I never once made an advance towards Gregory, and he certainly never made one towards me,” Mycroft said. “Even after he left that sham of a marriage, it wasn’t until years later that we finally started our relationship. And I think you know it, too. This godawful biphobia of yours is nothing more than an excuse so you don’t have to feel bad about your own failures as a partner, and believe me, that’s putting it mildly.”

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “Biphobia? Is that supposed to be a joke? If he’d just been honest at the beginning and _told me_ then we wouldn’t be in this situation, now would we? I wouldn’t have spent our entire relationship worrying that I wasn’t good enough, that he’d be sleeping around behind my back.”

Greg opened his mouth to retort, but Mycroft beat him to it, “You _aren’t_ good enough for him. Gregory is an honourable man, and that you would let your prejudice blind you to that fact is a grievous shortcoming on your part. But for the sake of argument, let’s say Gregory really was everything you feared. What about your current paramour? Does he know you’re still, as you put it, sleeping around behind his back? What did he do to deserve it?”

Amelia turned a dangerous shade of red, one Greg recognized from their many arguments. “How the hell do you know that?” she yelled. “Who fucking told you?”

“Oh good, you’re not even going to deny it,” Mycroft said brightly. “No one told me, Amelia, but I am not blind. You cheated on your faithful husband for years with multiple different partners; why should it be any different with a short-term boyfriend?”

If there'd been something throwable in reach, Amelia probably would have hurled it at Mycroft. As it was, she screwed up her face and bit back, “My personal life is none of your business.” The way her voice rose in volume, until she was nearly shouting, was an embarrassing contrast to Mycroft's calm, quiet anger. As terrifying as he knew it was to be on the receiving end of that frigid rage, Greg had to admit it was a welcome change from shouting and being hit in the head with shoes, magazines, and whatever else happened to be within Amelia's reach when they fought.

“I quite agree,” Mycroft said pleasantly, “but you seem to be making my personal life your business. Gregory is no longer your husband. You do not get a say in his life.”

Amelia’s jaw clenched, and Greg stepped in before either his past partner or his current one could say anything else. “Mycroft,” he said firmly, “I appreciate you standing behind me on this, but I’d really appreciate it if you would stop antagonizing Amelia. Amelia, I tolerate you being here for the sake of our daughters, but we both know you’re picking fights with Mycroft because I’m doing at least as well as you are and you can’t stand to see me happy at all, much less with a man. This is a family gathering and I, for one, would like to enjoy myself, so if you two could behave then maybe we can get through this relatively unscathed. Then we can all go home, Mycroft can mutter nasty things about Amelia on the car ride back, Amelia can post bitter remarks about Mycroft all over social media, and we’ll call it a successful family event. Alright?”

Neither party looked particularly happy with the idea. Mycroft was just shy of pouting, and Greg fixed him with a look of warning. Amelia was still bright red, and there was a moment where Greg thought she was going to keep yelling, but then it passed and she deflated, still glaring at Mycroft, “If he keeps his hands to himself, then I will.”

“Fine,” Mycroft agreed, voice dripping with disdain.

Greg sighed. “Come on, then,” he said, tugging Mycroft back towards the house. “Just a little while longer, and then we can leave.”

Amelia muttered something that sounded a lot like “good riddance,” but a glare from Greg shut her up enough for her to follow them sulkily into the house.

Mycroft kept up his end of the deal, more or less. He didn’t stop touching Greg altogether, but he toned it down to his usual levels of handholding and occasional kisses on the cheek. Amelia didn’t stop shooting him dirty looks, but Greg figured he could live with that so long as she didn’t try to yell at him or Mycroft again.

***

After about another hour of conversation, mostly with Emily and Jennifer, Mycroft had to slip away. He found socializing incredibly draining, and because it was a job requirement for him he’d long since developed a successful formula for the ratio of time spent putting on airs for the benefit of the other rich, powerful people that attended the social events on his calendar to time spent apart from the crowd. Granted, Gregory’s family was a far cry from his usual social circle, but the point still stood that he could only take so much small talk before he needed a break.

Gregory was on the other side of the room, in a heated debate about football with his nephew. He didn’t notice when Mycroft ascended the stairs, away from the noisy chatter of the full living room. By the time Mycroft reached the landing, it was muffled to a dull murmur.

Mycroft ran his fingers gently along the wall, examining the photographs lining it. The one closest to the stairs was a family portrait, the sort usually taken around Christmas at a hole-in-the-wall studio, and it was clearly from Gregory’s early childhood. His boyfriend didn’t look more than four or five years old, uncomfortable in a tiny suit and clutching tight to the hand of a young, pigtailed Jennifer in a purple dress. Daniel was on Jennifer’s other side, not looking directly at the camera. Already, he’d started growing out his hair, as it curled down past his ears and almost reached his shoulders. Patricia and Jack stood proudly behind their brood, hair not yet white and faces far less wrinkled.

Further down the hall, there were more pictures: Jennifer pushing Gregory on a tricycle as he laughed, Daniel brandishing a primary school award for the camera to see (although the photo wasn’t high enough quality to determine what sort of award), a teenaged Gregory in a leather jacket and graduation cap hugging his mother and grinning. Mycroft licked his lips subconsciously. He _really_ liked the image of his boyfriend in a leather jacket. He wondered how difficult it would be to convince Gregory to start wearing one again.

The bedroom doors were labeled in childish block letters. Jennifer’s stood on one side of the hall, and directly across from it was marked out as belonging to both Daniel and Gregory. Mycroft couldn’t deny his curiosity and gave in, turning the knob and pushing the door open quietly. When he flicked on the light switch, it revealed a fairly generic bedroom: a pair of twin beds sat on opposite sides of the room with a threadbare gray carpet between them. Posters lined the walls, mostly of football and rugby players or classic rock bands, but a few of attractive women that Mycroft vaguely recognized as having been celebrities around the time Gregory would have been a teenager. He peered into the closet, and found a football uniform and gear hung up along with the rest of Gregory’s old clothing, although disappointingly no leather jacket.

“There you are,” Gregory’s voice came in softly from the doorway. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

Mycroft turned to look at him, “I just needed a bit of a break. I’ll be back down in a moment.”

Instead of heading back downstairs, Gregory stepped fully into the room, hands in his pockets as he turned on the spot, “Wow, Mum’s hardly changed a thing.” He sat down on the bed, which creaked gently under his weight, “She keeps talking about packing it all up. Has been for years, but she never does it.”

“Sentiment,” Mycroft murmured. He sat down next to Gregory, studying the walls, trying to imagine his boyfriend as a teenager, lying on his bed and staring at those same walls. “So this is what a normal childhood looks like.”

“Pretty much,” Gregory said. “Why, what did your bedroom look like?”

“My bedroom was mostly bookshelves,” Mycroft admitted. “Sherlock had a great deal of posters, mostly scientific, and he won a handful of awards despite his best intentions so those were on display, but I never saw the appeal. It never really occurred to me to personalize my room, which turned out to be a blessing, considering very little survived when Eurus decided to burn down our childhood home.”

Gregory winced, and Mycroft leaned into his shoulder, pressing them together. He changed the subject, “You have quite a few pictures of attractive women on your walls.”

Gregory smirked at him, “Jealous?”

“Of your teenage fantasies? Hardly,” Mycroft sniffed, although he knew there was a tiny bit of truth to Gregory’s words.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Gregory offered, “if I’d met you back then, I probably would have had a massive crush on you too.”

“Doubtful,” Mycroft said skeptically. “I’m three years younger than you, which isn’t that much now but would have felt like eons apart as a teenager. Not to mention, I was spotty and overweight, as well as incredibly awkward. Hardly the sort of boy the captain of the football team crushes on.”

“First of all, I was never captain,” Gregory said. “Second of all, I dunno. I may have dressed a bit like a punk, but I was really into the whole brainiac thing, even then.” He grinned at Mycroft, “Smart is definitely sexy.”

“What a relief,” Mycroft said dryly, but he smiled too, just barely keeping a blush from blooming on his cheeks. He glanced at Gregory’s empty hands and asked, “Why haven’t you been drinking? Most of your family has had at least two beers by now.”

“You’re not drinking either,” Gregory pointed out. He shrugged, “Didn’t really feel like it tonight, I guess. If nothing else, you’ve been really good for cutting down my alcohol consumption.”

“Glad I can be of some use.”

Gregory laughed, “It could just be I’m worried that if I get a bit tipsy, I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft asked, turning towards him. Gregory’s face was inches from his own, and Mycroft abruptly recalled Jennifer’s joke from earlier in the evening.

It seemed Gregory recalled as well, because he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering between Mycroft’s eyes and his lips. It happened almost in slow motion; Gregory reaching up to cradle Mycroft’s face, their lips meeting in a soft kiss as Mycroft tangled his fingers in Gregory’s silver hair. Feeling bold, Mycroft nipped gently at Gregory’s lower lip, and his boyfriend’s mouth opened in a quiet groan. Mycroft took the opportunity to slip his tongue past Gregory’s lips, the sensation just a tiny bit alien as he tasted hints of what they’d had for dinner and something that was distinctly _Gregory_. His heart raced, and the sensation frightened Mycroft and turned him on in equal measure.

Gregory shifted, dropping his hands from Mycroft’s face to wrap around his back, clutching his shoulders as he dragged Mycroft down onto the bed with him, never letting their lips part for an instant. Mycroft ended up on top of Gregory, straddling one of his thighs as he pressed his boyfriend into the mattress. The heat of Gregory’s body was intoxicating, and Mycroft was dizzy with the force of their kisses. Or perhaps it was the lack of oxygen.

Despite carefully keeping their hips separated, Mycroft could tell Gregory was just as affected as he was. His boyfriend let out the most delightful little gasps and groans every time he pulled away to draw breath. His hips arched up off the mattress, and it was like he was begging Mycroft with his body. Mycroft wondered if he should have been more frightened, but he was high off Gregory’s kisses and this was nothing. He was completely in control, and he proved it by pinning Gregory’s hips down with one hand. He didn’t touch him, didn’t dare, but he didn’t stop kissing him either.

When they next broke apart to gasp for air, Gregory panted, “Mycroft, love, we should...ah...we should probably stop.” He was flushed, his lips slightly swollen and red from kissing, and Mycroft felt a strange surge of pride because _he did that_.

He also really didn’t want to stop. He wanted to wrap Gregory in his arms and kiss him forever. But he also understood what Gregory was trying to say. Gregory’s family was downstairs, and their absence would be noticed soon, if it hadn’t been already. He sat up, sliding off Gregory’s lap and fixing his shirt where it had threatened to come untucked. Gregory mimicked the position, smoothing down his hair. “That was…” he started.

“Excellent,” Mycroft finished for him. “Although perhaps not the best time.” His skin was still buzzing. It felt like every atom of his being was vibrating apart, and Mycroft didn’t want it to fade.

“Probably not,” Gregory agreed. “Right,” he glanced down at his lap and blushed. “You want to go down first? I’ll be there in a minute.”

Mycroft stood up, straightening his shirt one last time. He grinned over his shoulder at Gregory, who grinned back wildly, and then made his way downstairs. No one seemed to be aware of his departure or subsequent reappearance, with the exception of Jennifer, who narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, and then smirked and winked. Mycroft gave her a smug smile in return.

Gregory came down a few minutes later, lacking the blush, but when he caught Mycroft’s eye it ghosted over his cheeks again, ever so faintly. Mycroft turned away as Emily bounded up to him with another question. He immersed himself in the conversation again, trying not to think about his boyfriend’s body under his own and the sweet sounds Gregory had made.

***

After about two more hours of conversation, people began to trickle out. Danny left first, prompting a long lament from their mother about how she had barely seen him at all. Danny reminded her that he was running his own business and needed to be up early, and he promised he’d visit her soon. When he’d hugged Greg goodbye, he said, “I’m glad you’re happy, Greg. Don’t let him slip away.”

“I won’t,” Greg promised him.

Not long after that, Mycroft met Greg’s eyes across the room, and without saying anything Greg understood that Mycroft was ready to leave. He nodded subtly, and Mycroft turned back to Tim, who looked a bit pale at being cornered alone by the taller, much more imposing man, and murmured something quietly to him that had him shaking his head, but looking doubtfully towards Amelia. Mycroft just gave him a curt smile and walked over to Greg, taking his hand, “Shall we go?”

“Just need to say goodbye to everyone first,” Greg responded. Mycroft nodded and went over to Patricia, and Greg turned in the direction of his daughters.

Lucy and Emily had sequestered themselves by the bookshelf, and they both hugged Greg tightly when he came over. His heart swelled, a bittersweet ache. He’d loved being a father, and as proud as he was of his daughters, he sometimes missed the days when they’d been reliant on him. Now they were independent, powerful young women.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” he murmured to them. “We should talk more often, yeah? Call me every once in awhile.”

“Yes, Dad,” Lucy said dutifully, and although there was a joking tone to her words it was clear she was serious.

Emily hesitated, and then said very quietly, “I’m sorry about Mum.”

Greg shook his head, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

“I know,” Emily said. “I know we don’t really talk about it, but what she did…that’s really not okay. I hope things with Mycroft work out better than they did with you and Mum.”

“I hope so too,” Greg pulled Emily in for another hug. “I love you so much.”

“Love you too, Dad,” she responded, squeezing him hard.

He released her and headed for Jen, who crushed him in a hug and said, “Your boy’s a keeper. He’s worth fighting to hold on to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Greg laughed. “See you around, Jen. Bye, Matt.” Matt waved halfheartedly. He looked about ready to drop, which was pretty close to how Greg felt. He carefully avoided thinking about what Mycroft had done to him upstairs in his old bedroom, but he was fairly certain it hadn’t helped his exhaustion. It was like Mycroft had sucked the energy right out of him with those fucking amazing lips that Greg was _definitely_ not thinking about.

Mycroft was talking to Patricia and Jack when Greg got to him, and he hugged his mother and shook his father’s hand. “It was great to see you again,” he said. “And yes, Mum, I promise I’ll call more.”

“You say that every time,” Patricia sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Mycroft, you’d better hold this young man to it.”

“I will, Patricia,” Mycroft said. He looked at Greg, and his expression was tender, “The car is waiting outside. I’ll let the driver know we’re leaving.” He gave one last nod to Greg’s parents and disappeared down the hallway.

Patricia pulled Greg in for another hug and murmured in his ear, “That man is as good as family now, understand? Be good to him, and let him be good to you.”

“I will,” Greg said. He straightened up. “Bye, Mum. Bye, Dad.”

“Good to see you again, son,” Jack came close to a smile, and Greg smiled back at him before he headed for the door.

Mycroft was already in the car when Greg collapsed into the back seat next to him. As it pulled away, Greg sighed, “I’m knackered. There’s a reason I only see them once or twice a year. I love ‘em and all, but it’s exhausting.”

Mycroft hummed noncommittally, staring out the window. Greg frowned and rested a hand on Mycroft’s thigh, “Love? You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg scooted closer to him, wrapping his arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders, “Talk to me.” In the back of his mind, there was a tiny flare of panic. Mycroft had seemed okay with what they’d done, but what if he regretted it? What if Gregory had pushed him too far?

There was a moment of silence, and Mycroft licked his lips, clearly thinking. Then he said, “They seemed to like me.”

That was far from that topic Greg had been expecting, and he felt relief crash over him. “They really did,” Greg grinned. “The general consensus was that I should stay with you forever.”

Rather than reassure Mycroft, the words only seemed to worry him more. “They like me,” he said again.

Greg nudged him, “That’s a good thing, love. We wanted them to like you.”

“I’m not accustomed to people liking me,” Mycroft murmured. His gaze was still fixed on the window. “I suppose I should be relieved but…” He was clearly grappling with the words, and Greg waited patiently. Mycroft was trying to be more open with his emotions, and it wouldn’t do to rush him. Finally, Mycroft said, “It frightens me.”

“What does?”

“The idea that your family likes me. They’ll expect me back for holidays now, and eventually they’ll expect there to be a wedding, and what if we break up?” Mycroft’s voice, normally calm and even, rose in pitch somewhat and he swallowed hard enough that Greg could clearly see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He tore his gaze away from the window to look straight at Greg, and his eyes were wide and terrified when he said, “I love you, Gregory, but what if we can’t do this?”

“Hey, don’t say that,” Greg adjusted their position so he could hug Mycroft properly. He tangled his fingers gently in the hair at the nape of Mycroft’s neck. “We’re making this work. Hell, we’re more than making it work. We love each other, and nothing short of death is going to take me away from you, understand?” He smiled softly, “We can worry about all that other stuff when we get to it.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, leaning into Greg’s touch. Greg stroked his hair soothingly. “I don’t mean to be paranoid,” Mycroft said quietly. “It just...it all came crashing down on me, and I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Given your history, I’d say you’ve earned a little paranoia,” Greg responded, “but I promise you it’s not needed.”

“I love you.” Mycroft sounded completely helpless in that moment, and Greg squeezed him tighter to his chest.

“I love you too,” he said.

They stayed like that a long time, breathing together, until Mycroft had composed himself enough to pull away. He cleared his throat, “I want to apologize for being so…hands-on earlier.”

Greg grinned, “Which time are you referring to, love?”

Mycroft blushed, “Not...not what happened in your bedroom. Before that.”

“Well, like I said, not the most appropriate time, but if you want to act like that at home, be my guest.” Greg nudged him, “That goes for everything. Including the bedroom.” He paused, and then asked, “What’d you tell Tim? When you were talking to him at the end?”

“I told him the truth about Amelia,” Mycroft answered.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t when I first met you, and if I had you wouldn’t have wasted so many years of your life on that awful woman.”

“Very considerate to Tim,” Greg joked. “Why didn’t you tell me, though? Back when we met?”

Mycroft considered it, “I suppose I didn’t think it was my business. I didn’t get involved with people, and that was how I liked it. I never would have dreamed that we would become…well, even friends would have shocked me then, much less boyfriends.”

“I’m glad we did,” Greg said.

“So am I.”

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, but Mycroft reached across the seat to link his fingers with Greg’s, holding tight to his hand like he might float away if he let go. Greg held on too, because he would always, _always_ be there to bring Mycroft back down to earth. And as much as Mycroft needed to be grounded sometimes, Greg needed that hand reaching out to him, pulling him up to the sky.


	2. My Voice When I Couldn't Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft pushes too far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a fluffy filler chapter, and somewhere along the way we took a turn into angstville. I haven't tagged it as dubcon, but there are some vibes, and if you think that or any other things should be tagged, tell me. I'm serious, guys, this goes very much into the sexual part of Mycroft's relationship with David, and although he never describes it as rape or sexual abuse, it was. If that's a problem for you, let me know in the comments and I'll summarize this chapter for you. I haven't changed the rating from mature to explicit because Greg and Mycroft don't get that into anything, but if you think I should, tell me, and I promise it's fluffy again by the end of the chapter.  
> Still not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

“I want to talk about sex.”

Dr. Trevelyan looked up from her clipboard. Her expression was carefully schooled, but Mycroft could tell she was surprised. He’d considered bringing it up in previous sessions, but it had always taken a backseat to other aspects of his anxiety that were a little more...immediately relevant. Now, though, Mycroft wasn’t interested in waiting another week to have this conversation. Breathing techniques and heading off an anxiety attack before it fully hit him could be pushed back, because this was the most relevant thing he could think of.

Dr. Trevelyan leaned forward, her pen poised and ready to take notes. “Something happened, didn’t it?” she said.

Mycroft nodded. His body thrummed with minor twinges of anxiety, an embarrassed reaction that he wished he could avoid. Discussing his sex life with a complete stranger was remarkably unappealing, but Dr. Trevelyan wasn’t precisely a stranger. She was his therapist, this was part of his therapy, and he really needed to talk to someone about it, because talking to Gregory didn’t feel like an option just yet. Recent events had once again proven just how emotionally repressed Mycroft was, and he needed _something_ to jostle loose before he approached his boyfriend. Besides, Gregory wasn’t exactly qualified to deal with Mycroft’s emotional baggage, and Mycroft had dumped enough of that on him as it was.

When he didn’t explain, she prompted gently, “Do you want to tell me?”

“‘Want’ is perhaps not the best way to phrase it,” Mycroft admitted, “but I do...I need to talk about it.”

_The events of Saturday wedged themselves firmly in the back of Mycroft’s mind and refused to budge, save for a handful of trips to the forefront of his attention, for three days. Sunday had seen Gregory called into work unexpectedly, and he’d been very apologetic on the phone that night when he’d told Mycroft he wouldn't be home until early the next morning. By the time Monday morning came around, Mycroft had received a frantic call from Anthea about an MI6 mission gone horribly wrong and he ended up spending a solid thirty-two hours awake making phone calls and sitting through emergency meetings before the crisis was resolved and Mycroft was able to stumble home, fall into bed, and sleep for another twelve hours straight._

___As such, he hadn’t actually seen Gregory since Sunday morning. Three brief phone calls - one Sunday night, one Monday morning, and one midday Tuesday - were the extent of their contact. When Mycroft finally rose from sleep, just after one in the afternoon on Wednesday, he remained sprawled across the plush mattress, finally allowing himself to divert his full attention to the events he’d avoided thinking about since their occurrence._

___In the time Mycroft had been dating Gregory, sex had lingered somewhere in the periphery of his mind, lurking like an uninvited guest at a party. After his admission to Gregory that he wasn’t sure where exactly he stood on physicality, Mycroft had devoted a lot of his free brain space to thinking about it. And while Mycroft had plenty of free brain space in his ever-expanding mind, he also hadn’t been able to come up with a solid answer. Sex with David had been...complicated. The rational part of his mind was skeptical that the sex they’d had was truly the norm for couples, but the emotional part of his brain, which was surfacing more and more now that he was in a relationship, had doubts. On top of that, Mycroft had never been comfortable with his body. He’d spent most of his life viewing his mind as his most desirable asset, an asset which happened to be wrapped in a remarkably unappealing package. David had cemented that thought, and even with Gregory seemingly delighting in calling Mycroft a variety of adjectives for attractive, Mycroft had trouble believing that his long-time way of thinking was wrong._

_It was a combination of those facts which had Mycroft pausing whenever moving beyond the flirting and kissing became an option. There had been a few vaguely frustrating make-out sessions that Mycroft had initiated, only to push Gregory away again when his boyfriend's need to touch him (Gregory loved to have his hands just about everywhere when they kissed: in his hair, wrapped around his back or shoulders, cupping his face, etc.) had sent a jolt of panic through Mycroft's body. Saturday, on Gregory's childhood bed of all places, had been the first time Mycroft hadn't felt that panic. He'd been running high on emotion, too wrapped up in it all for his brain to intrude._

_When he thought about it objectively, Mycroft could confidently say that he wanted Gregory on a physical level. Although he was not normally one for self-pleasure, he'd found himself fantasizing about it numerous times in a variety of ways. Gregory was confident, with strong hands that could be rough or gentle in equal measure. Mycroft could easily imagine him putting those hands to use: pulling Mycroft into his lap to tease him when they made out, slipping into the shower with him and stroking his hair after pushing him to his knees, pinning him to the mattress as he kissed every inch of Mycroft’s body. In all of Mycroft’s fantasies, he imagined Gregory in charge, in control, and enthusiastically giving Mycroft everything he wanted and more. They were highly impractical fantasies, as being even the slightest bit out of control in bed was something Mycroft couldn’t allow himself, but they were certainly enjoyable scenarios to imagine._

_So yes. Objectively, Mycroft wanted nothing more than to have sex with his boyfriend. But he was equally certain that he knew his own body and mind (although mind he still had doubts about occasionally), and both emphatically said that it_ was not happening _. The contradiction frustrated Mycroft._

_It frustrated Gregory too, or at least the results did. They had already been dating for over two months, and there had been several months prior to that where Gregory had remained celibate. For Mycroft that was hardly a feat, as he’d spent most of his life that way, but he was also aware that the vast majority of the time his sex drive was much lower than that of the average human male. As much as Gregory insisted that he could wait until Mycroft was ready, Mycroft could see the strain it put on his boyfriend._

_It was for that reason, predominantly, that Mycroft decided he was going to rectify the situation. Saturday had proven to him that it wasn’t completely impossible, and Mycroft was certain that if only he could tap into that feeling again, he could give Gregory_ something _. He considered the best scenario carefully, and began to lay the pieces of his plan._

“About a week ago, I made a decision about my sexual relationship with Gregory,” Mycroft told Dr. Trevelyan. “I...I suppose I felt inadequate. We both wish to deepen our physical connection, and the fact that I cannot bring myself to follow through has put a bit of stress on our relationship. I wanted to fix it.”

“Did you talk to Greg about how you felt?”

Mycroft shook his head, “In retrospect, I probably should have, but at the time I didn't consider his input necessary. Gregory has been very patient with me, and he would never admit to wanting more despite his obvious frustration.”

Dr. Trevelyan tapped her pen against the clipboard, “You said you made a decision regarding sex. You don't need to share any details if you don't want to, but would you mind elaborating?”

“I resolved to arrange a sexual encounter, and I told myself I would ensure I followed through.” Mycroft's throat tightened just thinking about it.

_Mycroft had briefly considered discussing his plan, if not with Gregory then with his therapist, and dismissed the thought just as quickly. For one thing, Dr. Trevelyan had been helping dig into Mycroft's eating habits after his brief lapse during his time in Vienna, and as far as Mycroft was concerned that took priority. For another, Mycroft was confident he could pull it off without having to second-guess himself through another person. He could do this._

_He’d settled on Friday night as an appropriate time, assuming neither of them had a last minute crisis to deal with. Gregory’s current case would have wound down, and Mycroft would be able to work from home for most of the afternoon, allowing him to take the evening off with little effort. On the day of, Mycroft woke up with Gregory still in his bed, wrapped around him and nuzzling into the back of his neck. Mycroft slipped out from under his arm, careful not to wake the sleeping detective, and began to get ready for work. The earlier he went in, the more time he would have later to prepare._

_Gregory kissed him goodbye on his way out the door, promising that he would be home by six if all went well. Mycroft waited until he was out of sight before dialing Anthea’s number. When she picked up, he asked, “Have you moved my meeting to this morning?”_

_“Done as you requested,” she responded. “You're working from home today?”_

_“Just for the afternoon. I'll be in shortly.”_

_“Is everything alright, sir?” Anthea couldn't keep the worry from colouring her voice, but Mycroft didn't mind the lack of professionalism. Anthea had long since proven herself a friend as well as a co-worker._

_“Everything’s fine,” he assured her, “I just have plans tonight, that's all.”_

_“With Greg?” Her voice took on a more suggestive sort of concern._

_Mycroft understood what she was implying. “I'm fine,” he insisted. “I know what I'm doing.” He'd never discussed his past in great detail with Anthea, but she was bright enough to have figured it out herself, especially as she had access to all the same resources that he did._

_“If you're sure,” she said, although she still sounded doubtful._

_Mycroft would have been offended at her lack of faith in him if he hadn't been feeling the same pang of uncertainty. He pushed it deep into his mind, locking it in a box and stuffing it into a corner for good measure. His voice was soft when he said, “I'm sure, little flower.” He could hear the way Anthea inhaled sharply through the phone. Mycroft very rarely used that nickname for her, and only when he needed her to trust him implicitly._

_“I'll see you at work, Mycroft.” The informal response before the line went dead told Mycroft that Anthea wouldn't bring it up again. She'd trust him to make his own judgement. He just hoped it wasn't unwarranted._

“And did you?” Dr. Trevelyan asked. “Follow through, I mean.”

Mycroft grimaced, “Yes and no. It’s...complicated.”

“What do you mean?”

_Mycroft heard Gregory when he pulled the door open at precisely six-fifteen. His footsteps clattered noisily for a moment before they softened, meaning Gregory had taken his shoes off. “Mycroft?” he called, his voice echoing loudly down the hall._

_“In here,” Mycroft called back from the dining room._

_Gregory's footsteps came closer and then stopped as he froze in the doorway and stared. Mycroft smiled charmingly at him, drawing out Gregory's chair, “Sit down.”_

_Gregory approached cautiously. His fingers curled over the back of the chair, but he didn't sit down. “Did I miss a holiday?” he asked carefully. “It's not our anniversary, is it?”_

_Mycroft shook his head, still smiling, “No. I just wanted to surprise you.” He gestured towards the chair and said again, “Sit down. Please.”_

_“Alright,” Gregory slid into his chair, his mouth quirked into an odd smile._

_Mycroft sat opposite him. He'd made dinner, a creamy chicken Marsala with angel hair pasta. The traditionally Italian meal was one of the easiest for him to prepare, and he was aware of the connotations Italian food had with romance. To enhance the mood, he'd poured two glasses of Chardonnay and lit a few candles for the table. He wondered if he was trying too hard._

_Gregory twirled a strand of pasta around his fork, “I didn't know you could cook.” He took a bite, and then moaned. Around his mouthful, he said, “Oh my god, that's good.”_

_Smiling bashfully, Mycroft responded, “I don't do it often, but my abilities in the kitchen do go beyond ordering take-away.”_

_“So why have I been doing the cooking all this time?”_

_“Well, you are very good at it,” Mycroft teased._

_“And you like being pampered,” Gregory laughed._

_Mycroft laughed too and didn't deny it. He'd grown up being waited on by a small staff, and he was accustomed to a certain level of finery and comfort in his life. Plus, Gregory was a good cook and Mycroft knew his boyfriend liked to take care of him. It was a win-win._

_“So what’s this all about?” Gregory asked._

_Mycroft frowned at him, “What do you mean?”_

_Gregory took another bite, chewing slowly and then swallowing before he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but normally we’re pretty casual after work. This feels kind of like you’re trying to bribe me.”_

_“How so?”_

_“Mycroft, you made dinner. You lit candles.”_

_“So?”_

_“So, it’s really nice and all, but it’s a bit surprising. Feels a bit like that time a couple years ago when you took me to my favorite pub, even though I could tell you absolutely hated it there, because you wanted me in a good mood when you stole one of my cases from me.”_

_“I didn’t steal it,” Mycroft said, a touch indignantly, “it was our case to begin with.” His voice softened, “And I promise you, I have no ulterior motives here.” The lie tasted sour in his mouth, and he washed it down with a sip of wine._

_Gregory arched his eyebrows, “You sure? None at all?”_

_Mycroft drummed the fingers of his free hand on the table, unable to help the light colouring of his cheeks as he stared at the table. “Well,” he allowed, “there may be a_ slight _ulterior motive.”_

_“Yeah?” Gregory said._

_“It can wait until after dinner,” Mycroft said firmly, regaining control of the conversation. He glanced up, over the flickering candles, to look at his boyfriend coyly through his eyelashes. He would have felt stupid doing it if not for the way Gregory's eyes darkened at the gesture. Seduction was far from Mycroft's forte, but if his boyfriend's responses were anything to judge by, he wasn't half bad._

_After dinner, Mycroft started to clean up, resolutely denying Gregory's offer to help and sending him instead to the screening room to pick out a movie. In the kitchen, he took a deep breath and braced himself against the sink. Phase one complete. He could do this._

_He took care of the dishes and then marched resolutely into the screening room. He knew Gregory's taste tended to run more in the way of action films, so he was pleasantly surprised by his selection of_ Mr. and Mrs. Smith _. “It’s got a bit of everything,” Gregory explained. “Spy stuff, explosions, romance. Figured you'd appreciate it more than something that was just a lot of blowing stuff up, and you_ did _let me pick the film.”_

_“How very thoughtful of you,” Mycroft purred, sliding onto the couch next to Gregory. His boyfriend automatically wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders, and Mycroft cuddled into his side, sighing contentedly as the film began playing. He enjoyed this part immensely: feeling his boyfriend’s warmth as Mycroft pressed up against his side, the way Gregory’s thumb absently rubbed his shoulder in tiny circling motions, how Gregory liked to slip his foot around Mycroft’s, effectively locking their ankles together. The ease with which Gregory displayed physical affection was clearly a result of his childhood, and it made Mycroft wish he’d grown up in a similar manner. Had that been the case, maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult to bring himself to do this._

_Mycroft patiently waited ten minutes, counting out the seconds in his head because he was too nervous to focus on the movie._ This is Gregory _, he reminded himself sternly in an attempt to control his racing heart_. He loves you. He would never do anything to hurt you.

_Gregory must have sensed his unease, because he shifted slightly, turning to look at Mycroft with a concerned frown, “You alright, love?”_

_Instead of answering, because he knew he’d lose his nerve if he waited a second longer, Mycroft lunged forward and kissed him. Hard._

_Gregory let out a small, startled noise, his arms reflexively coming up to circle around Mycroft as they fell down onto the couch together. Mycroft seized the opportunity, licking along his boyfriend’s lips before plunging his tongue into Gregory’s open mouth. Gregory kissed him back enthusiastically, one hand reaching up to cradle the back of Mycroft’s neck, his fingers stroking through the short hair there, before he gently separated them, breathing heavily. “Hi,” he said softly, his voice tinged with curiosity and confusion._

_“Hi,” Mycroft responded, smiling in spite of the unease coiling in his stomach._

_“This have anything to do with the ‘ulterior motive’ you mentioned earlier?”_

_“Maybe,” Mycroft licked his lips seductively (he hoped) and moved to fully straddle Gregory’s waist._

_His boyfriend sucked in a sharp breath. “You sure you want to do this right now?” he asked. The movie was still rolling in the background, forgotten._

_“Very sure,” Mycroft tried to sound confident. It must have worked, because Gregory melted, dragging him down by his tie for a slow, sensual kiss that lit every one of Mycroft’s nerves on fire and sent delicious shivers down his spine. He could do this. He could do this._

_One of Gregory’s hands slid carefully down his back to wrap around his hip, gently coaxing Mycroft to rest his weight against Gregory’s body. Mycroft obeyed, shuddering slightly as he felt his boyfriend’s hardness press into him. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad reaction._

_“Okay?” Gregory asked him softly._

_“Okay,” Mycroft answered._

_“You want to take this to bed?” Gregory offered. “Probably be more comfortable than the couch.”_

_“No!” Mycroft flushed when his protest came out more forcefully than intended. Short though the distance was, that minute of time it would take to reach the bedroom was more than enough for Mycroft’s brain to intrude, and it was taking all his effort to shut it off as it was. To combat both that and the moderately awkward interjection, he rolled his hips down intentionally, and Gregory broke into a low moan, his hand squeezing Mycroft’s hip and holding him tight to his body. “I want to do this, right here, right now,” Mycroft breathed against Gregory’s lips, before sealing them together in another passionate kiss. He didn’t know if he was trying to convince Gregory or himself._

_What he_ could _say with confidence was that he had never been more grateful for button-down shirts in his life. They allowed him to continue kissing Gregory even as his fingers deftly slid the buttons of his shirt through the holes until the two halves parted and Mycroft could run his hand down Gregory’s chest, raking his fingers through the thick, silvery hair and drawing another moan from his boyfriend’s mouth. If nothing else, Mycroft knew he liked making Gregory make those noises. Jennifer hadn’t been kidding; Gregory was very vocal in bed, and it sent a strange surge of pride through Mycroft’s chest because he_ _was the one who was causing it._

_Gradually, so long as he focused most of his attention elsewhere, like on Gregory’s lips or the hand he still had in Mycroft’s hair, Mycroft was getting used to the feeling of Gregory’s erection pressed against him. He ground down into Gregory’s lap experimentally, and was rewarded with his boyfriend’s hips bucking up into the sensation. He flicked one of Gregory’s nipples gently with his fingernail and got a similar reaction. Interesting._

_Mycroft was doing a stellar job of ignoring his own erection. He was hard, a natural biological reaction to both the physical sensations and the elevated heart rate, but it was difficult enough to deal with the stimulus he was already experiencing. Any additional information would surely overwhelm him entirely._

_He focused back on Gregory, who seemed quite content to let him lead, which was an unfamiliar but welcome sensation. Mycroft took a ragged breath, panting against his boyfriend's lips, and then slipped his hand between them, shifting backwards just a bit so he could unbuckle Gregory’s belt. Gregory caught his wrist and murmured, “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’m fine with this, really.”_

_He looked so earnest that Mycroft almost broke right there, but he steeled himself and shook it off. “I want to,” he insisted, and brought down his other hand to unbutton and unzip Gregory’s trousers, slipping his hand inside both them and Gregory’s pants to wrap his hand firmly around the hard flesh beneath._

_The reaction was instantaneous; Gregory’s eyes slammed shut and he released Mycroft’s wrist, hand flying up to grasp at Mycroft’s upper arm, fingernails digging in just shy of painful. He tried and failed to muffle a groan, and when Mycroft squeezed him gently he reproduced the sound._

_Mycroft gave him a hesitant stroke. The angle was a bit awkward, but Gregory didn’t seem to mind, given the way he swore and clung to Mycroft more tightly. Mycroft’s heart was thudding loudly in his ears, and his chest was tight. It was hard to think, hard to draw in breath, but he ignored it and pushed on. He could do this. He_ was _doing this. He was-_

“I had an anxiety attack,” Mycroft said quietly. “At least, I think that’s what it was. It was hard to tell, in the moment.”

Dr. Trevelyan frowned, “What do you remember?”

Mycroft smoothed his hair back, sweat beading on his forehead from even just thinking about the event. “Not...not as much as I would like,” he admitted. “A lot is...blurred. I know I initiated it, and I kept pushing even though Gregory gave me multiple opportunities to stop. And somewhere in the middle I...I believe I blacked out.”

“Has that ever happened to you during sex before?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said bluntly. He felt the unpleasant ghost sensation of fingernails raking down his back and a voice whispering in his ear, _That’s it, My. Just lay back and take it._ He squashed it, banishing it to the back of his mind.

“With David?” she asked.

“Of course with David,” Mycroft sighed. “It's not like I have any other experience.”

“Do you know why you blacked out?”

Mycroft shrugged, shifting uncomfortably, “Sometimes, with David, it was easier not to...be there. I could let my mind wander. He never noticed.”

“Did Greg notice?”

_Mycroft slowly came back online, blinking quickly as his surroundings swam into view. He wasn't in the living room anymore; somehow, he'd made it to bed. That wasn't entirely surprising, but he wasn't quite sure why he was still dressed. His tie was gone, and so was his waistcoat, but beyond that nothing had been removed. There was a heavy weight wrapped around his shoulders, and Mycroft reached up, his fingers meeting the thick fabric of the duvet._

_“You were shivering.”_

_Mycroft looked up. Gregory was sitting at the end of the bed, facing Mycroft with a grim expression. Mycroft’s heart plummeted._

_“I didn't know what to do,” Gregory continued. His voice was ghostly quiet, “You weren't responding to me.”_

_“I'm sorry.”_

_“You scared the shit out of me, Mycroft!” Gregory yelled. Mycroft flinched, and Gregory took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry. But Christ, love, what the hell was that?”_

_Mycroft swallowed hard. “What...What happened, precisely?”_

_“You started hyperventilating,” Gregory said, “right around the time you got your hands down my trousers. You_ really _didn't like it when I tried to stop you, and then you just kind of...I don't know, shut down. You stopped moving, wouldn't answer me when I spoke to you. You just sat there and shivered. I brought you up here. I didn't know what else to do.”_

_“I don't remember any of that,” Mycroft whispered. He drew his knees to his chest and rested his chin against them. “You tried to stop me?”_

_“'Course I did,” Gregory said. “Mycroft, love, you were clearly panicking. And when you didn't respond to me…” He swallowed, looking sick, “I was so scared, love, so scared I'd done something wrong. Did I? Did I do something wrong?”_

_“No!” Mycroft lurched forward, towards Gregory, who flinched away from him. Mycroft froze. “You didn't do anything,” Mycroft rushed out. He needed Gregory to believe him, “You didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't your fault.”_

_“Really? Because it feels an awful lot like I gave you a panic attack.”_

_“You didn't do anything wrong,” Mycroft insisted again. “It was my fault. I should have-” He stopped, unsure how to continue. Backed off when he realized he was uncomfortable? Not an option. Not suggested it in the first place? Even less so. Pushed through, been a better actor so they wouldn't be in this position? With how ill Gregory looked, Mycroft was pretty sure his reaction after that would have been even worse. “I wanted to do this for you,” he finished lamely._

_That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because Gregory’s expression turned to horror. “Oh God,” he whispered. “Did you think I_ expected _you to do that? Mycroft, just because we were starting to get more physical doesn’t mean-”_

 _“I know you didn’t expect it,” Mycroft interrupted. The sensations warring in his stomach were making him feel about as queasy as Gregory looked, and Mycroft wasn’t quite sure if it was a byproduct of guilt, shame, or a mix of the two. “And therein lies the problem. You’re so...so_ good _about all this, and you deserved better than what I was giving you. I just wanted to be enough for you.”_

 _“You_ are _enough for me, love,” Gregory’s voice was pained. “It has nothing to do with whether or not we’re having sex.”_

_“You wanted it,” Mycroft tried not to make it sound accusatory, but he was fairly certain he failed._

_“Of course I wanted it. I like sex, and I have an amazingly hot boyfriend who I love very much. But that’s not the point. The point is that you didn’t want it.”_

_“I wanted to want it. For you.”_

_“You think that makes it better?” It was clear Gregory was trying very hard to keep his voice level. “I don’t want you trying to give me sex like it’s some sort of prize for being your boyfriend. I’m not David.”_

_Mycroft’s whole body went tense and the anxiety flared up again. He hadn’t discussed his sexual history with Gregory, other than that he wasn’t entirely inexperienced. But Gregory was intelligent. He wasn’t one of the Yard’s top detectives for nothing, after all, and it made sense that he could put two and two together. Mycroft just wasn’t sure the extent to which Gregory had deduced what sex with David had been like._

_Gregory seemed to take Mycroft’s silence as the end of the conversation. He sighed and stood up. Alarmed, Mycroft asked, “Where are you going?”_

_“I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight,” Gregory answered. He sounded exhausted. “I just...I can’t do this tonight, Mycroft. I’ll see you in the morning.”_

_Mycroft watched him go, his stomach threatening to spill the dinner he’d worked so hard on all over the bedspread. He lay down, pulling the comforter up to his chin, not bothering to strip out of his clothes, and curled up into a tight ball. He squeezed his eyes shut in a vain attempt to staunch the flow of tears._

“He noticed,” Mycroft confirmed. “We…had a bit of a fight about it. He didn’t like that I pushed myself so far, even though I did it for him.”

“That’s understandable,” Dr. Trevelyan said.

“He hasn’t been able to look at me all week,” Mycroft said. “He’s hardly said two words to me, he won’t touch me at all anymore, and he doesn’t even sleep in the same bed as me!” He sighed, and then admitted, “I think I went about it the wrong way.”

“That’s a good observation,” Dr. Trevelyan remarked. There was just a hint of dryness to her voice that Mycroft appreciated. Not being treated like glass was a welcome change.

“I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” Mycroft continued. “I would like to have sex with him, ideally without the anxiety attack in the middle, but honestly I’d settle for being able to fake it through at all.”

“And I think that’s the problem,” Dr. Trevelyan pointed out.

Mycroft frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Mycroft, if you’re honestly contemplating how to pretend you’re not having an anxiety attack in the middle of sex just so you can fulfill some misguided obligation you think you owe your boyfriend, then you’re not ready to be having sex. It doesn’t matter if you want it; you’re not in a place where you can handle it emotionally.”

“Misguided obligation?” Mycroft bristled.

“You talk about sex like it’s something you owe Greg, and you didn’t consult him at all in your decision. I know I say this most weeks, but I’m going to say it again because I think you really need to hear it: you need to talk to him.” When Mycroft went to protest, she held up her hand, “I get that opening up like that can be difficult for you. You hardly tell me about David, and I’m your therapist. But whatever he did to you-”

“He didn’t do anything to me that I didn’t let him,” Mycroft said stiffly.

Dr. Trevelyan had the decency to not look at him with pity, although she did look concerned. “Regardless of whether or not you let him, your current ideas about sex lead me to believe that the dynamic between you was far from healthy in that aspect of your relationship. Mycroft, you are under no delusions that what David did to you wasn’t abuse. You recognize that. And yet you still keep applying the same principles from that unhealthy relationship to your current one.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably as he considered that. Dr. Trevelyan was right, of course. He drummed his fingers against his thigh, and said quietly, “David had certain expectations of me. I...I never wanted to say no to him, and towards the end I don't think it would have mattered much if I had. So I didn't. I let him do what he liked. I even encouraged it at times. I thought that was what I was supposed to do.” He sighed, curling his fingers in a loose fist to stop the nervous fidgeting, “It's different, with Gregory. He always makes it clear that he has no expectations of me, and he allows me to say no, even when his body betrays that idea. The contradiction...it is difficult for me to know what I'm supposed to do.”

“And that's why you should talk to him,” Dr. Trevelyan said. “You need to be honest with him. Tell him why you're confused, and trust that he'll do his best to understand. I'm not a couple's counselor, but I can tell you that your relationship will not be able to handle the stress if you keep pushing like you have without discussing it. Do you get what I'm saying?”

“I understand,” Mycroft grimaced. If he had to talk to Gregory...his boyfriend already didn't want to touch him. How much worse would it get if Mycroft admitted to him what his past experiences had been like?

 _It can't,_ his brain murmured. Gregory had already taken to not sleeping with him, to hardly being able to look Mycroft in the eye. He was slipping away from Mycroft, and if he didn't do something soon, Mycroft would lose him altogether. It was a risk, but it was the only option that made sense.

His decision must have shown in his face, because Dr. Trevelyan looked satisfied. She leaned back in her chair, “Well. Now that you've agreed to that, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

***

“How was therapy?” Gregory asked over dinner, breaking the silence that hung in the room like a sharp, glass chandelier on a fraying thread. The question was likely in response to the way Mycroft was picking at his plate, given the way Gregory's eyes remained fixed on it instead of looking at Mycroft.

For his part, Mycroft hadn't been able to bring himself to do more than push his dinner around with his fork. Even with the progress he was making, the sharp talons of his own self-doubt dug in and refused to let go until he did what he had been putting off all evening. With a sigh, Mycroft braced himself and set down his utensils with a gentle clink that echoed loudly in the quiet room. “I...have some things I need to discuss with you.”

Gregory's eyes flicked to Mycroft's face briefly, worry creasing his brow, and then he looked back down at the table. “Alright.”

The sheer wrongness of the gesture struck a chord with Mycroft. He didn’t think the ache in his chest could have been any more severe if a malicious surgeon had actually reached in and grabbed ahold of his heart. Gregory was first and foremost a confident man. To see that confidence shattered and replaced with quiet uncertainty, by Mycroft’s own actions no less, was deeply unnerving. “Gregory,” Mycroft said tentatively. “Would you please look at me?” He waited until Gregory raised his eyes, very slowly, to meet Mycroft’s own before he continued, “I apologize for my actions last week. I am aware I caused you a great deal of distress, and that is something I never wished to do. I...I would like to explain myself.”

“Okay.” It was clear he had Gregory’s full attention, even if the look on his face was unreadable. Mycroft was used to reading everyone around him like a book, and Gregory more easily than most. He didn’t want to linger too long on what it meant that he couldn’t tell what his boyfriend was thinking.

He took a deep breath, and dove in. “There are, in my mind, two very distinct realities. There is my past relationship with David, and there is my current relationship with you. In most respects, I am able to solidly identify which behaviors in my past relationship would be considered unhealthy, and therefore not apply them to our relationship. Certain ideologies have been difficult for me to grasp, such as your unwavering support in addressing my mental health or your continued insistence that you find me attractive without having to change major aspects of myself, but I have, for the most part, been able to acclimate myself to being in a healthy relationship and leave behind much of my previous way of thinking.”

“But?”

“But not with sex,” Mycroft said bluntly. Gregory flinched, but sugarcoating it wouldn’t help either of them. He pressed on, “My sexual relationship with David was complicated. I’m not sure I should go into detail-”

“Please,” Gregory interrupted him, “go into detail.” The look in his eyes was simultaneously dark and sad.

“Very well,” Mycroft swallowed hard. “David and I first consummated our relationship less than a month after we began dating. I had requested we take it slow, as I had no experience in either relationships or sex, and in the beginning he complied. But after two weeks, he began to get...impatient. He became a little more physical when we kissed, pinning me to him or trying to put his hands in places I was uncomfortable with. Whenever I protested or withdrew, he would tell me how badly he wanted me, how he loved me so much that he wasn’t sure he could wait much longer. After the third week, I...I gave in. It seemed like such a little request, just oral sex. It hardly counted, according to him, so I rationalized that he must be right. I didn’t enjoy it. He pulled my hair too hard and wouldn’t let me breathe properly and when I questioned him on not using a condom, even though neither of us had been tested, he became defensive and began accusing me of not trusting him. And he wasn’t particularly interested in reciprocation either. The first time, I assumed it was because he was fairly inexperienced as well and had been as nervous as I was. It only became apparent later that David was far more experienced than myself and that his lack of reciprocation was going to be a near-constant approach to sex.”

Gregory had stopped eating altogether, and his knuckles were white against the tablecloth. Mycroft paused, scanning his face, but when Gregory said nothing he continued, “It escalated from there. I loved him, and I didn’t want to disappoint him, so as the requests gradually got more frequent and more intense, I continued to say yes. When I felt I understood the mechanics of sex well enough, I began to watch his body language and gauge when he might be interested, so that I could initiate contact. He liked it better when I could anticipate his needs, and most of the time I didn’t need to be particularly...active. I wasn’t actually comfortable with sex as a concept; I still felt off-balance and inexperienced. But it was easier to say yes and let him do what he wanted than say no and risk losing him. Eventually, it got to the point where more often than not I would experience a sort of blackout during sex. My body still performed as required, but my mind was blissfully unaware of what was happening.”

“And that’s what happened when we…”

Mycroft nodded, “Quite.” He fidgeted with the silverware but maintained eye contact with Gregory. “Rationally, I can understand that you are not David. You have no interest in pushing me beyond my limits and although it can be frustrating you never intentionally make me feel guilty for not sexually satisfying you. But I am more than just my rational mind, much as it pains me to admit it, and I was with David for three years. We haven’t even been together three months. Unlearning a behavior takes a great deal of time, and as my exposure to sex has been extremely limited since I terminated my relationship with David, I have not had the opportunity to do so. Regardless of the trust I have in you, and please do not doubt that I trust you, Gregory, I am instinctively going to want to please you without considering my own opinions on the matter.”

“When we talked about this on Valentine’s Day, I specifically asked you not to attempt to seduce me until you felt ready to take that step,” Gregory pointed out. “You agreed.”

Mycroft inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “I did,” he said, “but I miscalculated my own reactions. Do not misunderstand; I do want to have sex with you. But...it’s very difficult for me to tell the difference between my actually desiring you and my wanting to pleasure you because I believe it is what you want. When we initially got together, I was not ready to have a sexual relationship at all. Now that I feel more comfortable with you and have been able to consider going further, there is the unexpected roadblock of my history. We are going to have to take it much slower than I anticipated, and with a great deal more conversation than I initially believed to be necessary.”

“Damn right there’s going to be more conversation,” Gregory said emphatically. It was the first burst of any strong emotion Mycroft had seen out of him all week, and it was almost a relief. “It’s my fault too,” Gregory continued. “After what happened at my parent’s house, I probably should have sat down with you and talked about what we actually want, if we were in a position to actually consider having sex. I definitely should have done it on Friday, but I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly in the moment.” He fixed Mycroft with a pointed look, “And I understand why you did it, but I really don’t appreciate you lying to me like that. If nothing else, Mycroft, you really need to learn how to tell me no, okay? You’re allowed to not want sex, hell, you’re allowed to not want me to touch you at all, and even if you initiate something you’re allowed to change your mind and tell me ‘no, actually I don’t want this anymore.’”

“I know,” Mycroft said.

“I know you know,” Gregory returned, “but I need you to actually apply it.”

“Does this mean you’re going to touch me again?” Mycroft asked hopefully. He didn’t bother trying to disguise the need in his voice.

“Only if you actually listen to me,” Gregory said. “I mean it, Mycroft. If I find out that you’ve been lying to me again about being comfortable with something you’re not, then...I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I guarantee you neither of us is going to be happy with it.”

Rather than answer, Mycroft stretched out his arm and laid his hand in between them. Gregory did the same, lacing their fingers together, and warmth shot down Mycroft’s arm and enveloped him like a blanket. Gregory squeezed his hand once and then said, “Think you could finish your dinner, love? It’s getting cold.”

Mycroft grudgingly released his hand and picked up his fork. His stomach was beginning to settle, so he was fairly certain he could manage at least half the plate. Maybe even three-quarters.

“We will have to talk at some point,” Gregory said. “Lay down more specific boundaries, that sort of thing. But tonight, if you’re up for it, I think I’d just like to cuddle with you a bit before bed.”

“I would very much like that,” Mycroft said enthusiastically. “I missed you touching me.”

“I missed it too,” Gregory admitted with a small smile.

“And you’ll sleep in our bed tonight?”

“I’ll sleep in our bed tonight. Wasn’t sleeping well away from you anyway.”

“I don’t know how I survived sleeping alone for so long,” Mycroft said. “I can’t get comfortable without you in bed with me.”

Gregory’s eyes were soft. Mycroft was surprised at just how relieved he was that Gregory’s reaction hadn’t been worse. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting in response to his admission; Gregory wasn’t the sort of man to look down on Mycroft for his past, to think him weak or disgusting for what he’d suffered with David. Gregory was better than that, and Mycroft shouldn’t have doubted him. He finished about half of his plate and then stood, holding his hand out for Gregory to take.

His boyfriend obliged, and they snuggled up together on the couch. Mycroft kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the warm closeness, making up for the week without it. Gregory stroked his hand gently through Mycroft’s hair and pressed lazy kisses to his temple every now and then. It was peaceful, and it was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written smut, or anything smut adjacent, for an audience before. Am I doing okay? Are you liking this series in general? And since I haven't asked in a while and this universe has tons of room to expand, is there anything you guys would like to see in the future? You comments and kudos fuel me, and I'll see you as soon as I can write the third chapter to finish out April. One more birthday party to go!


	3. You Saw the Best There Was In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Rosie's birthday, and Mycroft is exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all that drama, this is so fluffy. So fluffy, oh my god. There is some discussion of Mycroft's eating disorder, but other than that it is mostly sleepy Mycroft and Rosie cuteness. I figured you'd earned a respite from all the angst (no worries, those of you who like it, it's coming right back with the next update).  
> Still not Brit-picked, so let me know if there are any problems.

“Come on, love,” Greg nudged Mycroft gently. “You have to get up.”

Mycroft curled into a tighter ball under the duvet in retaliation. “Go away, Gregory. I’m sleeping.”

“It’s eleven o’clock.”

“I don’t care.”

Greg pulled the covers back enough to expose Mycroft’s pajama-clad upper body. His boyfriend opened one blue-grey eye and glared at him. “I told you not to take that meeting at one in the morning,” Greg said. “You chose not to listen.”

“Next time the Chinese threaten to start World War Three over a poorly negotiated trade agreement, I’ll request that they do it on my timetable,” Mycroft said sarcastically, although the effect was muted somewhat when he ended the sentence on a yawn.

The lack of cryptic avoidance about what the meeting entailed proved Mycroft was more tired than Greg had thought. He sat down on the bed and rubbed Mycroft’s back soothingly. “Ten more minutes,” he conceded, “but then you have to get up.”

He went to leave, but Mycroft rolled over and grabbed his arm. “Stay,” he murmured.

Although he was fully dressed, Greg obligingly slipped back into bed, pulling the covers up over them. He wrapped an arm around Mycroft’s waist, and his boyfriend settled comfortably against his chest. Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead and Mycroft hummed in contentment.

After a minute, just when Greg thought Mycroft had drifted back to sleep, he said, “We aren’t required to get up. You have the afternoon off, and I do as well, so long as I keep my phone on. We could just...stay here.”

“Mycroft Holmes wants to lay around in bed all day?” Greg teased. “What is the world coming to?”

“I’d make it worth your while,” Mycroft promised.

“Yeah?” Greg asked. “How?”

“Like this.” Mycroft stretched up and kissed Greg’s lips, slow and sensually. When they parted, Mycroft lingered there, hovering just a hair’s breadth away from Greg. “What do you say, Detective Inspector?”

Greg was aware of his body taking an interest, and he closed his eyes for a moment to regain control of himself. Their talk last week had been good, but they hadn’t discussed their relationship since, though not by any fault of their own. They were busy men leading hectic lives. There hadn’t been a lot of overlapping free time, and what little they’d had was mostly spent cuddling and watching movies as both men were too exhausted to do much else. It meant bouncing back into gentle flirting and teasing, but Greg was still a bit on edge. Watching Mycroft disconnect from reality had been terrifying, and Greg’s heart clenched even just thinking about it. He really didn’t want to step over any boundary lines, and since they hadn’t actually drawn any boundary lines that just made it more difficult. “I say,” he responded carefully, “that as tempting as that offer is, Mr. Holmes, we do have a prior engagement.”

“She’s only a year old,” Mycroft complained, sounding remarkably like his younger brother. “Celebrating her birthday is useless. She won’t remember it anyway.”

“She’s your niece,” Greg reminded him, “and you haven’t even met her yet.”

“She won’t be my niece unless Sherlock signs the adoption papers or he and John get married. And since they want to ‘take things slow,’” he freed one hand for the air quotes, “neither of those things has happened, meaning she’s not technically my niece.”

“Still,” Greg said. “You’re going to her birthday party. You’re going to meet her, socialize a bit, eat some cake, and then we can come home and you can tell me all about how much of a waste of time it was while we cuddle, okay?” He dropped his voice, the deeper register sending a strong enough shiver through Mycroft’s body that Greg felt him tremble when he said, “I’ll wear that jumper you like.”

Finding that out had been a bit of a surprise; Greg didn’t own many shirts that weren’t button-downs, but Mycroft had found a deep blue jumper on Greg’s side of the closet last Sunday and insisted he wear it. It wasn’t quite skin-tight, but it did hug Greg’s body comfortably, displaying his muscles, and the fabric was soft and worn. Mycroft hadn’t been able to keep his hands off Greg, stroking his back and shoulders and arms. He’d even rubbed his face against Greg’s chest like a cat at one point. Mycroft really liked the colour blue on Greg, and he liked soft things on his boyfriend even more. If Greg had known all it would take to get Mycroft’s hands on him was wearing a cozy jumper, he would have tried it years ago.

Mycroft made a low noise in his throat that sounded suspiciously like a moan. Greg laughed, “I swear, it’s the weirdest things with you.”

“Liking to see my boyfriend in specific clothing is not _weird_ ,” Mycroft huffed.

“But you have to admit, leather jackets and jumpers are an odd combo.”

“I’ll admit no such thing. It’s incredibly tame and practically mainstream. Be glad I don’t want to see you in fishnets and a corset.”

Greg leaned in closer to whisper in Mycroft’s ear, “Not really my thing, but I can do that if you want me too.”

There was a second of silence, and then Mycroft shoved Greg playfully as they both broke into stupid grins. “No, I think not. Having a cross-dressing uncle rather put me off the idea of having a partner do it,” Mycroft said. “Although it’s a moot point, since you won’t even wear a leather jacket for me.”

Greg dropped a kiss onto Mycroft’s pouting lips. “If you’re very good,” he said, “maybe I’ll find one for your birthday.”

“Mmm, but that’s ages away,” Mycroft said. “Yours is closer. What if I just get you one then?”

“How about this. If you play the piano for me sometime in the next week, then I’ll let you get me in a leather jacket on my birthday. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Greg sealed it with another slow kiss, and then tapped Mycroft’s hip. “Time’s up,” he said. “We have to get up now, love.”

Mycroft groaned and buried his face in the pillows.

It took a bit more coaxing before Mycroft actually made it out of bed, and Greg sent him right into the shower. By the time Mycroft got out and dressed, Greg had changed into the promised jumper and had a cup of coffee waiting for him. “You're really going to wear a full suit for a baby’s birthday party?” Greg asked as he handed it over. “Don’t get me wrong, I love your suits, but it seems a bit formal.”

“You have me out of bed with nowhere near enough sleep, about to visit my younger brother and his family, not to mention the fact that I'll have to make small talk with people who either don’t know or don’t like me. I’ll wear whatever I please.” Mycroft adjusted his waistcoat and took a sip of coffee. His free hand reached out and settled on Greg’s waist, thumb rubbing gently against the fabric. Greg wasn’t even sure it was a conscious decision.

“You think they don't like you?” Greg asked.

“I know they don't like me,” Mycroft said bitterly.

Greg pulled him a step closer so he could rest his forehead against Mycroft's, “Hey. I love you. And anyone who doesn't like you-”

“Is a practical, observant person,” Mycroft interrupted. “Not everyone sees me the way you do, my darling.”

“I should hope not,” Greg grinned. “You're mine.”

“That I am,” Mycroft agreed. He smiled fondly, “and you are mine.”

“Damn right.” Greg kissed him, tasting coffee and toothpaste. Mycroft leaned into him, setting his cup on the counter behind Greg in favour of running his hands gently up and down Greg's back. When they broke the kiss, Greg murmured against Mycroft's lips, “You definitely have a fetish.”

“It's an appreciation, not a fetish,” Mycroft said haughtily.

Greg teasingly nipped at Mycroft lower lip. “It's a fetish.”

Mycroft was too busy moaning softly to retort. He made a displeased sound when Greg pulled away, and tried to follow for another kiss, but Greg shook his head. “We're not going to be late because you've distracted me,” he said.

“There's such thing as fashionably late,” Mycroft suggested.

“And walk in and have your brother deduce exactly why we weren't on time in front of everyone? Not a chance.”

“Embarrassed of me?”

Greg really hated when Mycroft made self-deprecating jokes like that, and his voice was far more serious when he responded, “Never. I just don't want to deal with Sherlock throwing a fit like the drama queen he is. I know you're not a fan of the spotlight.”

Mycroft sighed. He stepped back, and Greg acutely felt the empty space between them. “Very well,” he said. “I suppose we should be going. I promise I will be...civil.”

“You will be _pleasant_.”

“Fine,” Mycroft huffed, pasting on his best fake 'I’m at a social event that I'd rather not attend but lives may be at stake’ smile. Greg saw it every time Mycroft had to go to a dinner meeting.

“Thank you, love,” Greg said, kissing him one last time before leading him to the car.

***

They were technically on time, arriving precisely at one-thirty as requested, but they weren't the first people there. Mrs. Hudson opened the door for them, smiling warmly at Gregory and less warmly at Mycroft, as usual. “So glad you could make it,” she cooed, addressing Gregory directly. “Come right up.”

“It's good to see you, Mrs. Hudson,” Gregory said as he stepped over the threshold. He glanced back at Mycroft pointedly.

Mycroft felt the childish urge to refuse. After all, Mrs. Hudson was far from a fan of his. But he kept up his polite smile anyway and said, “You're looking well.”

“Thank you,” she replied. Her voice was a bit clipped, but it wasn't icy. The party must have put her in a good mood.

Upstairs, a few people were milling about. Molly was on the sofa, looking quite cozy as she chatted with Detective Inspector Stella Hopkins, one of Sherlock’s newer associates (or perhaps friends, given her appearance here. Mycroft might have to look into her more closely). John and Sherlock stood by the fireplace, heads bowed together as John hissed something at Sherlock, probably having to do with him being a gracious host. Rosie, who was in Sherlock's arms, seemed completely uninterested in her parents’ conversation, and let out a small squeal when she saw Mycroft and Gregory in the doorway. She patted Sherlock's shoulder with one chubby hand, “Here! Here!”

Sherlock and John both looked up. Gregory strode across the floor to greet them and Mycroft followed at his heels, trying not to appear as his boyfriend's awkward shadow. “Greg,” John said warmly, “and Mycroft. Glad you could make it.” He nudged Sherlock, who started.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. His smile looked about as fake as Mycroft's felt. “It's a...pleasure to have you here.”

“Don't strain yourself, brother mine,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock took that as permission to drop the forced smile and fall into a more neutral expression. Rosie reached up and tugged on his curls, and Sherlock looked down at her, then offered her out for inspection, “I don't believe you've met Rosie yet.”

Before Mycroft could do more than blink at the child with uncertainty, Gregory cooed, “Hey Rosie! Remember me?” She squinted at him, a clear mimic of Sherlock, and then looked up again at the man in question.

“That's your Uncle Greg,” John supplied, and she turned towards her other father’s voice.

“Geg,” she repeated, prompting little chuckles from everyone except Mycroft, who glanced around, confused. He didn't have much experience with babies, save for his two younger siblings, but he wasn't sure why basic development was met with such regard.

“Close enough,” Gregory laughed. He reached out and lifted Rosie from Sherlock's arms, bouncing her lightly and making her giggle. “You're getting so big!”

“Geg,” she said again, patting his chin. She wrinkled her nose at the stubble.

“That's right,” Gregory said. “I'm your Uncle Greg.” He angled her towards Mycroft, “You want to say hi to Uncle Mycroft? He's a bit shy, but I think he'd like to meet you.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but he was already being passed the child. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John tense up, and the doctor said, “Mycroft doesn't have to hold her if he doesn't want to.”

Before Mycroft could respond favourably to that idea, Sherlock cut in, “Your worries are unfounded, John. Mycroft held me several times when I was a baby, and he never dropped me.”

“Maybe he should have,” Gregory joked. “Might have knocked that smart mouth out of you.”

Rosie settled in Mycroft's arms, his body responding reflexively, as if remembering how he'd held baby Sherlock. Although Rosie looked nothing like his brother, her fair hair a distinct contrast to Sherlock’s raven curls, the way she blinked at him, regarding him with the same caution he was regarding her with, was so very similar to how Sherlock had been at that age. Curious and just barely starting to talk, his favourite word had already been “why?” and Mycroft had been his passport to understanding the world. How things had changed.

“Hello, Rosamund,” Mycroft said quietly, although without the cutesy voice that everyone seemed to adopt when talking to children. The words felt vaguely wrong, and he corrected himself, “Hello, Rosie.”

She frowned at him, poking at his nose and stretching up to grasp the curl of hair on his forehead. She glanced back at her parents, as if confirming she wasn’t being held by a total stranger.

“That's Mycroft,” John said. “He's your uncle.”

“My!” Rosie repeated dutifully. Mycroft stiffened at the use of his least favourite nickname and reminded himself that she was a baby. She couldn't help it.

Sherlock noticed his reaction and smirked, “It's hardly her fault she can't pronounce the ridiculous names our parents gave us. We could teach her to call you Tony, if that would be more agreeable for you.”

“Tony?” Gregory echoed in disbelief.

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, “You’ll do nothing of the sort, _Billy_.”

A look of understanding dawned on John's face, although Gregory appeared completely in the dark. “I thought it was just Sherlock,” John said, clearly amused, “but your parents...they really gave both of you those long, dramatic names, didn't they?”

“Who wants to explain to me what we're talking about?” Gregory asked.

John jerked a thumb at Sherlock, “Sherlock's not actually his first name. It's William. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Of course, it only took him five years of being my best friend to tell me that.”

“Yes, because you were so forthcoming with your middle name,” Sherlock retorted.

Gregory looked at Mycroft, raising his eyebrows, “You really didn't tell me your name?”

“Mycroft is my name,” he said, aware of the haughtiness in his voice. “The rest was irrelevant.”

“Of course, Anthony,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

“One more word out of you, Sherlock, and I'll tell John about the time when you were eight and decided you were old enough to use my school's chemistry lab on your own.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

Mycroft stared him down, “I have photos, brother dear. Lots and lots of photos.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft, and the brothers faced each other in a silent battle for a long minute. Mycroft saw the surrender in Sherlock's eyes a moment before his younger brother straightened up and plucked Rosie out of Mycroft's arms. “I should go mingle with the other guests,” he said. “We're just waiting for a few more. Enjoy the party.” He stalked off, depositing himself on the sofa between the women, who immediately began cooing over the baby.

“Sorry about that,” John said, although he didn't look particularly sorry. He looked more curious than anything else. “I'll, uh, be over there,” he nodded in Sherlock's direction. “Make yourself at home.” He followed his partner.

Gregory turned to Mycroft, “ _Anthony_? Really?”

Mycroft sighed, “Is it truly that important for you to know?”

“Are you kidding?” Gregory grinned. “You're choosing to go by _Mycroft_ when you've got a perfectly ordinary name to use? Of course I want to know.”

“Very well,” Mycroft wasn't thrilled, but there were worse things for his boyfriend to fixate on than his name. “My parents decided the appropriate name for me was Anthony Mycroft Thomas Holmes. It's very...English. Very common.”

“Except for Mycroft,” Gregory said gleefully. “Oh, that's good. Is that why you go by Mycroft? The rest is too mundane for you?”

“My parents called me Mycroft, just as they called my brother Sherlock instead of William. I don't know why they bothered with the rest.”

Seeing Mycroft's tension, Gregory laced their fingers together and squeezed. “I'm just teasing, love,” he said. “It's just nice to be reminded sometimes that you're as human as the rest of us, complete with ridiculous parents and a healthy dislike of your middle name.” He paused, “Well. Your first name in this case.”

“You bear no such ill will towards your own name,” Mycroft pointed out.

Gregory considered for a moment, and then said, “I’ve never told you my middle name.”

Mycroft frowned, unsure where his boyfriend was going with that statement. “No, you haven’t,” he said. “I assumed you didn’t bother because you thought I already knew it.”

“Well, that’s part of it, yeah,” Gregory admitted. “You do know it, right?”

“I’ve seen a copy of your birth certificate,” Mycroft responded, and then winced. He was aware of the invasion of privacy, and despite Gregory knowing about Mycroft’s file on him, it didn’t always sit well with Mycroft how easily he could access detailed personal information about his boyfriend through his work.

“‘Course you have,” Gregory said good-naturedly. “I absolutely hate it. Gregory Gordon Lestrade. What were my parents thinking?”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Ringing endorsement from you,” Gregory nudged Mycroft gently. He grinned. “It’s alright. Next time you annoy me I’ll just call you Anthony.”

“Do that and you’ll find yourself sleeping on the couch.”

“You can’t kick me out of bed,” the look Gregory gave him bordered on indecent. “You’d miss me too much.”

“That I would,” Mycroft agreed, “but I might be willing to suffer your absence if it impressed upon you how very much I hate my first name.”

“Consider me warned then,” Gregory grinned and pecked him on the lips. The kiss was soft and sweet, but he didn’t linger. Mycroft appreciated Gregory’s willingness to tone down his physical affection in public, especially when he glanced across the room to see Sherlock watching them with slightly narrowed eyes.

John was ignoring his partner, enthusiastically greeting Mike Stamford, who had just come through the door, “Good to see you again. Feels like we never talk anymore.”

“Well, we’re both busy men,” Mike said amiably. He wandered over to where Molly had Rosie on her lap and lavished the same affection on the baby that everyone else seemed to give so readily.

“What’s wrong?”

Mycroft’s train of thought broke at his boyfriend’s voice, and he turned his attention back to Gregory, “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve got that look again,” Gregory said. “The one where you’re confused by something but you’re not willing to ask because you don’t want to look stupid.”

“I do not have a look for that,” Mycroft frowned.

“You really do,” Gregory told him. “You get a little crinkle right...here.” He smoothed his thumb over the ridge of Mycroft’s cheekbone, just below his right eye, and Mycroft’s skin tingled in the wake of the touch. “Your face scrunches up just a little. It’s really cute.”

“I do not understand people very well,” Mycroft admitted. His gaze flicked to Rosie again.

“You do alright,” Gregory said.

Mycroft pursed his lips. He knew some things about human nature were obvious to him, and it allowed him to interact with others to a reasonably normal degree, but other aspects of socialization were completely foreign to him. “Rosie seems perfectly ordinary for a child her age,” he said, “and yet everyone is delighting over her and praising her as if she was some sort of miracle. I don’t fully understand it.”

Gregory laughed, “That’s normal, love. Everyone likes to think their child, or their friend’s child,  is special. Doesn’t matter how ordinary they actually are; everything they do is proof of how incredible their kid is.”

“That seems unrealistic,” Mycroft said. “If you praise a child for being ordinary, they will never achieve their full potential. They will believe they are special when in fact they are perfectly average.”

“I think you’re wrong there,” Gregory said. “I mean, yeah, some kids turn out like that, but most turn out just fine. Did your parents really not do that with you lot?”

“Of course they did,” Mycroft said, “but myself and my siblings were particularly precocious. Need I remind you that although you are three years older than me, I would have begun reading complex novels before you had graduated beyond children’s books, and Eurus taught Sherlock how to play violin despite being a year his junior. Praising us for our abilities was logical; we were advanced.”

There was a second where Gregory didn’t respond, and Mycroft felt a stab of anxiety. He wondered if he’d made Gregory feel inferior, if he’d upset his boyfriend with what, in hindsight, sounded a bit like bragging.

But Gregory didn’t seem at all upset when he replied, “It’s not supposed to be logical. It’s all parental hormones and protective instincts. It’s love. It doesn’t have to be rational.”

“I see,” Mycroft said, and maybe he did. Love was a tidy explanation for things that didn’t make sense. People behaved in all sorts of irrational manners when they were in love. He supposed love for one’s offspring was much the same.

Mycroft was distracted from Gregory when the door burst open once more and a beautiful brunette strode through it, grinning and holding her arms out, “Sherl! It’s been ages!”

Next to Mycroft, Gregory frowned in confusion, “Wait. Isn’t she…?”

“Janine,” Mycroft confirmed, at the exact same moment Sherlock bridged the distance between him and the woman, clasping her tightly in a hug and kissing her cheek.

“Janine,” Sherlock smiled. “So glad you could make it. Here, I don’t think you’ve met Rosie yet.” He guided her over to the cluster of people, scooping up his daughter and passing her off. Mrs. Hudson slipped into the room and shut the door behind her, indicating Janine was likely the last guest to arrive.

“She’s the one who said all those things about Sherlock in the paper, right?” Gregory asked.

Mycroft had never met Janine personally, but he had kept an eye on her when it looked like she and Sherlock were becoming involved. It had taken less than ten minutes of surveillance to make it clear to Mycroft that Sherlock had no interest in her as a companion, but he hadn’t anticipated a friendship forming between the two. “Sherlock does keep odd company,” was Mycroft’s only response.

The party dissolved more naturally into an actual gathering after that. Mycroft nearly panicked when Gregory disappeared from his side, only to be replaced by none other than Janine. “Hi!” she said brightly, “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Janine. You’re Mike, right? Sherl’s brother?”

Internally, Mycroft winced at the nickname. Between Rosie, Sherlock, and Janine, it seemed like everyone was determined to call him something other than his actual name. But he kept his expression friendly and merely said, “Mycroft. Yes, I’m Sherlock’s brother.”

She grinned. Her posture was laidback, easygoing, the opposite of Mycroft’s natural state. “He’s told me a lot about you, you know,” she said.

“Nothing good, I imagine.”

She shrugged, “Some good, some bad. I think the thing that stuck out for me most was ‘wouldn’t know a good thing if it bit him in the arse.’”

“Well, we’re not into that, but I think we can safely say it’s been disproven,” Gregory joked, sliding easily into the conversation as he returned to Mycroft’s side. He handed Mycroft a cup of tea, which Mycroft accepted, grateful to have something to hold. He felt odd with his hands empty. “The only drink options were that, wine, beer, water, or Rosie’s juice boxes,” Gregory informed him, “and I figured you could use something to calm you down a bit.” Gregory, for his part, had a glass of water. Mycroft wondered if the concern Gregory had mentioned at his family gathering, about not being able to keep his hands off Mycroft if he indulged, was still in effect.

“Thank you, darling,” he said automatically. A split second later he remembered that Janine was still with them, and flushed slightly. Gregory grinned and slipped his arm around Mycroft’s waist, his fingers curling comfortably against Mycroft’s hip.

Janine glanced back and forth between them, “So are you two…?”

“I’m his boyfriend,” Gregory tilted his head towards Mycroft. “Greg. We met at John’s wedding, sort of.”

“Yeah, we did,” Janine said. “The detective, right? Scotland Yard?”

“That’s me,” Gregory said. “I saw those articles, about you and Sherlock?” His tone shifted slightly, changing from pleasant to something a shade closer to his police officer voice, “I’m surprised Sherlock still wants to know you after all that.”

Janine waved it off, “It was just a bit of slander. I know it was petty, but he did fake-propose to me. I think I earned a bit of pettiness. Sherl understands. And he’s happy now, with someone who is definitely not me.” Her gaze shifted towards John, and Mycroft scanned her face for any sign of jealousy or anger. There was none. She just looked satisfied and vaguely amused, and when she looked back at Mycroft and Gregory she said, “In hindsight, it was pretty obvious he wasn’t that into me. Probably should have seen the signs, but then, Sherl’s a damn good actor.”

“He actually let’s you call him that?” Gregory asked.

She smirked in response, “I’d like to see him try to stop me. Right, Mike?”

Mycroft stiffened at the clear challenge, but as always his knight swooped in to his rescue, “Actually, Mycroft really hates nicknames. Doesn’t even let me use them. Sherlock might let you get away with it, but if he’s told you anything about Mycroft then you know he has ways of making people disappear. I wouldn’t risk it.” The words were almost playful, accompanied by Gregory’s beautiful crooked smile, but the undercurrent of threat made it clear that he wasn’t quite joking.

“Okay then,” Janine looked at Mycroft, curiosity sparking in her expression.

“Gregory is being a bit dramatic,” Mycroft said, “but he is correct. I really would prefer it if you refrained from using nicknames for me.”

“Got it,” she said. “This a new development, then? You two, I mean. I didn’t see you at the wedding.” She addressed Mycroft.

“I had...other matters to attend to,” Mycroft lied. There really hadn’t been anything particularly pressing keeping him from John and Mary’s wedding. His wedding gift to the couple, besides a rather expensive set of ceramic dinner plates (which apparently were getting good use since John moved back to Baker Street, as Mycroft had noticed them in the sink on his way in), had been to stay well away from their happy day. Mycroft knew John hadn’t been, and still wasn’t, quite enamoured with him, and it was easier not to have to brave the crowd and the rich food.

“It’s still pretty new,” Gregory added. “Three months exactly last Thursday.” He gave Mycroft a quick kiss on the cheek, and then said, “I can’t believe I was lucky enough to snag him, you know? He’s totally out of my league.”

“I believe I am the lucky one,” Mycroft said, smiling warmly at Gregory, whose face softened when he returned the look. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” It felt strange, to expose such a deep truth in front of a near stranger, but, oddly enough, Mycroft didn’t care.

“Well, aren’t you cute,” Janine said. “I think I’m going to get a drink to wash down all this sticky sweetness.” She waved a hand at them, “Best of luck to your relationship. You guys seem perfect for each other.” With that declaration, she headed into the kitchen.

“Not that I needed her blessing,” Gregory commented, “but it’s nice to know that people beyond our families approve.”

“I’m not sure my brother approves so much as doesn’t want me to die alone,” Mycroft glanced towards Sherlock, who was engaged in an energetic conversation with Molly. “Although he certainly thinks you’re an excellent candidate for my companion.”

“Nah, he approves,” Gregory said. “He’s basically given us his blessing half a dozen times. But if you’re not sure, you could always ask him. I still think you two should talk more.”

“The way you should contact your family more?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Gregory pinched his side lightly. “Mum exaggerates. I talk to her plenty. And we’re talking about you right now.” He nudged Mycroft, “You should talk to Sherlock tonight. One on one. It doesn’t even have to be about anything. Just...talk to him.”

“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement,” Mycroft said, when really he meant ‘I would do just about anything you asked me to and I understand the point you’re trying to make.’ It wasn’t just Sherlock that Mycroft was struggling to contact. His parents were still refusing to speak to him directly, choosing to work through Sherlock instead. It was frustrating and Mycroft wished there was a way to make them understand that he had done the best he could. Yes, it had backfired horribly, but that was all the more reason to forgive him so they could move on. Dr. Trevelyan had said in one of their sessions that Mycroft should take the first step in bridging the distance, but he didn’t know how to start the conversation.

Gregory understood and kissed his cheek again. “I’m going to go make that small talk you hate,” he said. “You okay to be left here on your own?”

“I’m not a child, Gregory,” Mycroft responded. “Go enjoy yourself. I’ll be fine here.” He leaned back against the bookshelf, looking out into the room.

“Alright,” Gregory released him and joined one of the circles of conversation, the others opening up to allow him in as if he belonged there. It was a stark reminder to Mycroft of how unsociable he really was. It had been easy to forget, with how at ease he was around Gregory, not to mention meeting Gregory’s family, that Mycroft didn’t actually have friends. People, as a general rule, did not like him. He took a sip of tea, prepared precisely how he liked it because Gregory was an angel, and observed. No one tried to approach him.

Or rather, none of the adults did. At some point, Rosie had been set down on the floor to crawl around, as babies were apt to do (and with Sherlock watching her like a hawk), and Mycroft had lost track of her until she bumped against his trouser leg, grasping at his ankle to pull herself to her feet. She stared up at him, clinging to him tightly to keep from wobbling. Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, who was watching carefully, set his teacup on the bookshelf, and then squatted down to be on her level.

Rosie let go of his leg and held her arms out in a clear gesture. Mycroft obligingly picked her up. “Did you want something, Rosie?” he asked her.

“My,” she responded, patting his shoulder.

He clenched his jaw to keep from wincing. “Yes,” he said. “I’m your...Uncle Mycroft. Did you want something from me?”

Her response was more baby talk than actual words. Mycroft shifted her in his arms, bouncing her lightly the way Gregory had before. She squealed happily and said, “My! Up, up!”

“I’ve already picked you up,” he told her, smiling in spite of himself. He’d never considered having children of his own. They weren’t conducive to his lifestyle; Mycroft worked too much to be a single parent and by the time Gregory had come into his life, Mycroft already believed himself too old to have kids. If he’d thought it then, now, ten years later, it was definitely too late. Still. He knew Gregory loved being a parent, and cradling Rosie in his arms made him wonder.

“She likes you,” Sherlock’s deep baritone broke in. He had appeared by Mycroft’s side without him noticing, not that he would mention that to his younger brother.

“She’s an agreeable child,” he said, a bit stiffly. She giggled and he felt himself soften. “I like her as well.”

“You pretend you’re not good with children,” Sherlock said astutely, “but you find them simpler, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“People are complicated,” Sherlock said. “They have ulterior motives and they lie about everything and they think they’re being clever when they’re not. We see through most of it, but it’s still there. The whole population perpetuating the fallacy, it’s exhausting. Children are refreshingly simple. If they cry, it’s because they want food or sleep or a hug or a toy. If they act like they like you, they like you. And you really were excellent with me as a child.”

“How would you know?” Mycroft said. His chest felt tight, the ache something new and unfamiliar, a bit like nostalgia but different. “You don’t remember those years.”

“I have some memories,” Sherlock said. “Certainly after the first few years. You were...a good big brother. I took you for granted, but you were always there for me. Through everything. I think that’s why it hurt so much when you left.”

“Careful, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured, because it was easier. “You’re bordering dangerously close to sentiment.”

“Just setting a good example for my daughter,” Sherlock said. Surprisingly, he didn’t move to take her from Mycroft’s arms, where she had grown bored of the adults talking and settled sleepily against Mycroft’s shoulder. “I know I don’t say it...ever,” Sherlock continued, “but I am grateful. For all that you’ve done for me. Thank you.”

“It was my job,” Mycroft said. The ache in his chest twisted viciously, and he rocked Rosie gently to combat it.

“It really wasn’t,” Sherlock said. “There’s only so much you can ask of an older brother, and you did far more than you should have had to.”

Mycroft didn’t have words. He stared at his younger brother, at the sincerity in his eyes, feeling the heartbeat of his niece against his chest. Finally, he managed, “Then, I suppose, you’re welcome.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Sherlock broke into an easier, less intense grin. “I’m sure I’ll still make your life plenty complicated.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Mycroft relaxed and smiled too.

“And I won’t be very nice to you,” Sherlock added.

“You’re hardly nice to anybody. I’d hate to be an exception.” He shared a smirk with his brother.

“Speaking of not being nice to you,” Sherlock segued, “I may have told Mummy and Father that you would see them next month.”

Mycroft froze, “You did what?”

Sherlock shrugged, “They asked John and I to bring Rosie by, seeing as she’s basically their granddaughter and they’ve only seen her once since she was born, so I told her we would. And then I said that I had an idea about communicating with Eurus, and Mummy said that she didn’t want to have that conversation without you present. And I may have mentioned you were seeing someone, and she suggested you bring them by to meet the family unless you were planning on keeping secrets again, and I generally got the impression that you should go if you don’t want to be written out of the will.” Sherlock blinked at him with faux-innocence.

Mycroft sighed, the movement jostling Rosie slightly, who squirmed against him before resuming her rest. “Sherlock, you know communicating with Eurus is a danger to everyone.”

“I’m not so sure,” Sherlock said. “It’s just an idea, Mycroft, nothing more, and you still can veto it. Just...come next month, and hear me out. See our parents. Straighten things out with them.” He glanced across the room to where Gregory and John were talking, “I’m sure they’ll adore Lestrade, so he can soften the impact considerably.” Sherlock hesitated, a tiny spark of uncertainty flickering across his face, and then said, “Please?”

It wasn’t often that Sherlock said please, and Mycroft sighed again, knowing he would give in. “I’ll think about it,” he said, when really he meant ‘You’re right, but I won’t tell you that and I’ll wait a while to let you know even though I’ve already made up my mind.’

“Excellent,” Sherlock said, when really he meant ‘I know you’ve made up your mind but I’ll let you tell me on your own time.’ They understood each other.

Mycroft went to hand Rosie over to her father, but he shook his head. “Best not to move her just yet,” Sherlock said. “She’ll be incredibly fussy if she’s woken up so soon. If you don’t mind holding her for a little while longer…?” His voice was calculating, the quirk of his lips well hidden to anyone but his more perceptive older brother.

“It’s fine,” Mycroft said. He went back to rocking her, aware her tiny fist was bunching up the fabric of his suit jacket but not caring about it. “She’s a very sweet girl.”

“She’s quite the charmer,” Sherlock agreed. “Just like her father.” His eyes sought out John again, and the blond man looked over and gave Sherlock a small smile.

“Just like her father _s_ ,” Mycroft corrected when his brother glanced back at him. “When they want to be.”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing hard, and apparently decided he’d had enough intense emotional conversation for the time being, because he said, “Well. I’d better get between Janine and Molly before Janine spills all my deep dark secrets from when we were...dating. Some thing’s it’s best she not know.”

“I’m sure,” Mycroft said dryly, casting his eyes towards where the mousy young woman was chatting amiably with the taller brunette, who was leaning over her with one hand planted on the wall behind Molly’s head.

Sherlock followed his gaze, “What?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft said. “Although, not everything is about you, brother mine.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, then back at Molly and Janine again. “Oh,” he said softly. “Well. Always one deduction short.”

“Maybe don’t interrupt their conversation.”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock agreed. Instead, he walked over to John, sliding his arms around the shorter man’s waist and resting his chin on top of John’s head. John seemed perfectly happy with that development, and continued talking to Gregory as if nothing had happened. After a moment, Gregory excused himself. Seeing where he was going, Mycroft met him halfway.

“Saw you and Sherlock talking,” Gregory said.

“Yes, well, wherever Rosie goes, my brother is not far behind,” Mycroft said.

“I noticed that,” Gregory’s eyes slid to the sleeping baby and then back up to Mycroft’s face. “You warming up to her, then?”

“Very much so,” Mycroft smiled at her, stroking a stray blonde curl off her forehead with his free hand. “By the way,” he said casually, not looking at his boyfriend, “It turns out you’re going to meet my parents next month.”

“What?”

“Among other things, Sherlock apparently told our mother that I was seeing someone, so naturally she wants to meet you. And what Mummy wants, Mummy gets.” For all his forced nonchalance, when Mycroft chanced looked up, it was to Gregory’s stunned face. “Is that alright?” he asked.

Gregory shook his head, as if to clear it, “Uh, I guess so? I mean, I did just introduce you to my family. It would only be fair. And I kind of want to give your mother a piece of my mind. The way she’s been treating you after...the Eurus thing, it’s really not okay.”

“Perhaps you could save the telling off for the second meeting,” Mycroft suggested. “I don’t think the best way to endear yourself to my family is to yell at them.”

“I dunno,” Gregory said with his playful, lopsided grin. “It worked pretty well for you at my parents’ house.” He shrugged, “We’ll figure it out. I mean, you’re not going to dump me if your parents hate me, right?”

Mycroft hated the undercurrent of uncertainty. “Certainly not,” he said firmly. “I love you, and that’s what matters. _Not_ what my parents think.”

“Although it would be nice if they liked me.”

“They like John,” Mycroft said. “I’m sure they’ll like you.”

“Even if I tell them off?”

“I wouldn’t push your luck,” Mycroft told him. Rosie stirred in his arms, yawning, and Mycroft said, “I should probably turn her over to John and Sherlock. I’m not quite sure the protocol for midafternoon naps.”

“Good idea,” Gregory said. He jerked his head over to the unoccupied couch. “I’ll be over there when you’re done.”

***

Greg watched Mycroft pass off a reluctant Rosie to her parents. Mrs. Hudson was perched on the arm of the sofa, having sat down when she saw he had. She was watching too. “Rosie really does seem to like Mycroft,” she said, sounding almost disappointed.

Greg looked at her, “Okay, honestly. Why don’t you like Mycroft?”

She pursed her lips, “You wouldn’t understand dear. You’re dating him.”

“So enlighten me,” Greg said. He knew Mycroft rubbed some people up the wrong way, but for most it was just a generic indifference and a preference to be around other people if possible. Mrs. Hudson’s dislike was far stronger than that, and it didn’t make any sense to Greg.

“It’s a motherly instinct,” she said. “Sherlock’s one of my boys, has been pretty much since I met him, and Mycroft...well, Mycroft’s not good for Sherlock. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them interact without Sherlock being in a great deal of trouble.”

Greg frowned, “I’m not sure your cause and effect makes sense. Mycroft checks up on Sherlock when he knows he’s doing badly. That’s a good thing, right?”

“He never seems to have good intentions,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, not really answering Greg. “And he’s so controlling.”

“Well, you got me there,” Greg said. Control issues were something Mycroft struggled with in all areas of his life, not just with Sherlock.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft nodded respectfully, approaching to join them.

“Mr. Holmes,” she responded, standing up to wander towards the kitchen.

Greg pulled his boyfriend down onto the couch next to him, wrapping an arm around Mycroft and allowing his boyfriend to rest his head on Greg’s shoulder. “We were just talking about you,” he murmured.

“Oh, I see. That must be why she looked like someone had given her a lemon to suck on,” Mycroft said.

“Be nice.”

“She’s never nice to me.”

“She just worries about Sherlock,” Greg said. “Like you do. You just go about it different ways, and that clashes.”

Mycroft nuzzled into Greg’s neck, settling even closer to his side. He wrapped his long finger around Greg’s arm, stroking them over the soft sleeve of his jumper. Greg kissed the top of his head, “I know. It’s been a long day for you. We’ll have cake soon, and then you can sleep.”

“What if I don’t want cake?” Mycroft asked.

“You’ve had two cups of coffee and half a cup of tea today and nothing else,” Greg said. “And I know that because Anthea told me you hadn’t eaten anything when you went in for your meeting this morning. If you really don’t want cake, then I’ll make you something to eat when we get home, but I think you should have the cake. You like sweet things-”

“Like you,” Mycroft interrupted. His eyes were closed, but he was smiling softly.

Greg laughed, “You must be tired if you’re getting sappy on me. A bit of sugar will be good for you, and you’ve been doing really well lately. If Sherlock says anything about it, I’ll clock him for you.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, love, I promise.”

There was a bit more socializing, which mainly consisted of Greg talking to Molly or Janine or DI Hopkins when they wandered over to him and Mycroft sitting next to him and nodding and smiling politely at appropriate intervals, and then John announced that it was time to have cake. Rosie had seemingly woken up from her brief nap with plenty of energy to spare as everyone crowded around the table in the cramped kitchen to sing Happy Birthday to her as she squirmed in her high chair, impatiently reaching out for the cake with both hands. Sherlock blew out the candles with her, mainly so she wouldn’t sputter all over the cake, and then kissed the top of her head and cooed about how good a job she had done while John began to slice.

Greg saw Sherlock and Mycroft’s eyes meeting over the top of the cake, and a complicated exchange passed between them, but Sherlock remained silent when John handed Mycroft two pieces, one of which he immediately passed to Greg. After locating a pair of forks, they retired back to the living room with everyone else, settling down on the couch again with Molly on Mycroft’s other side and Janine perched on the armrest and leaning over her.

It was carrot cake with a lighter frosting, probably something whipped to be fluffier. Sherlock really had been reading a lot of parenting books. Greg didn’t need to have the Holmes’ boys deductive eyes to see them scattered about the flat, mostly tucked away on the bookshelf but also open on the desk and kitchen counter. The cake was delicious, but Mycroft was mostly poking at his with his fork, rather than eating it. Greg leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Mycroft murmured back. “Just...it’s been awhile. Since I allowed myself to have cake.”

Greg understood, sort of. Working back up to eating meals, normal healthy foods, was one thing. Indulging in desserts and “just because” foods was harder. “You don’t have to eat it now if you don’t want to. We could bring it home, and you could have it after I get some proper food into you,” he suggested, hoping that was a reasonable compromise.

Mycroft shook his head. “I can do this,” he said quietly. He adjusted his grip on the fork, his face set in determination, and broke off a small piece. He brought it to his lips, swallowing it and letting out a soft sigh. Greg pressed a kiss to his temple. It was incredible that no one else seemed to notice what was going on in their little corner of the living room. Around them, everyone laughed and talked, oblivious to the battle Mycroft was waging against himself. Greg never ceased to be amazed by Mycroft’s progress. Even with the number of strong, capable people Greg met in his line of work, Mycroft was the strongest person he knew.

Mycroft finished about half the cake before he pushed the plate towards Greg and wordlessly buried his face in Greg’s neck. Greg took it away from him, setting it to the side and dropping a soft kiss on top of Mycroft’s head. “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured into his boyfriend’s hair. “You’re amazing.”

“Can we go home now?” Mycroft asked in a small voice.

“Sure,” Greg said. “Just let me tell them we’re leaving, okay?” Mycroft nodded and stood up slowly, drifting over to hover by the door. Greg approached John and Sherlock, who were perched around the desk, Rosie in John’s lap and with cake smeared all over her joyful face. “Hey, we’re going to head out,” he said. “Mycroft had an early meeting, and he’s exhausted. It was great seeing you. You know. Not at a crime scene.”

“Thanks for coming,” John smiled at him. He looked down at his daughter, “Say bye to Uncle Greg, Rosie.”

“Bye Geg!” she chirped.

“Bye, kiddo,” Greg ruffled her hair. He glanced at Sherlock, who was studying Mycroft. “I’ll be seeing you soon, probably.”

“If Scotland Yard is as hopeless as ever, then yes, I’m sure you will,” Sherlock murmured. He turned sharply, pinning Greg with his gaze, “Take care of him.”

“I do,” Greg said. It wasn’t exactly a challenge, but it certainly was phrased as a reminder.

Sherlock nodded, and then looked away, engrossed in his daughter again.

Greg nodded at John one last time and then joined Mycroft by the door, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and guiding him outside. As they left, a chorus of “bye!”s followed them out as people noticed them going. Mycroft collapsed into the car waiting for them, his eyes closed, and Greg said fuck it to seatbelts and pulled Mycroft close, not quite in his lap but with one of Mycroft’s legs twined over Greg’s and Mycroft clinging to him, his fingers stroking Greg’s chest lightly. “You really like this jumper,” Greg joked quietly, carding his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

“Soft,” Mycroft murmured in response.

“It’s been a long day,” Greg said. “You falling asleep on me?”

Mycroft shook his head minutely, but the sentiment was betrayed by the lack of a verbal response and the fact that Mycroft still had his eyes closed.

It took a little effort to wake Mycroft up enough to get him into the house and up the stairs into the bedroom, even with Greg supporting him. “You’re lucky I work out,” Greg told him, “or there’s no way this would work.”

“Are you calling me fat?” Mycroft asked, a touch of hurt in his voice.

Greg cursed himself internally. “Of course not,” he reassured his boyfriend, “but you’re an adult man and mostly asleep on your feet right now.” He sat Mycroft down on their bed and knelt in front of him, sliding Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders and undoing his tie. Mycroft didn’t seem to notice until Greg got to the buttons on his waistcoat, which was when he put his hands over Greg’s, stilling them, and frowned.

“Gregory,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t-”

“Not trying to get into your pants, love,” Greg assured him. “Just figured you didn’t want to sleep in your suit.”

“Oh.”

“You think you’re awake enough to finish changing?” Greg asked. Mycroft nodded. Greg stretched up and kissed him lightly, “I’m going to have a quick shower, and then I’ll come to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Greg returned, Mycroft had already tucked himself under the blankets. Greg slipped in behind him and Mycroft reached back and drew Greg’s arm around his waist. Greg kissed the back of his neck, murmuring against the skin, “Worth getting up today?”

Mycroft made a noncommittal sound. “I think I would have prefered to spend the day in bed with you,” he said after a minute.

Greg laughed, “We’ll do that someday soon, I promise. Next time we both have a vacation day. Sound good?”

“Very good,” Mycroft murmured. “Now shush. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Greg whispered. He propped himself up enough to kiss Mycroft’s cheek, and then dropped back down onto the mattress, settling comfortably with Mycroft curled up in his arms. _Love you_ , he thought at his boyfriend. And it was probably just coincidence, but Mycroft chose that moment to squeeze his hand softly, almost as if in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miscalculated; there will be one more installation taking place in April before we get to the lovely Holmes family drama in May. Hope you guys are still enjoying, and thank you for sticking around this long! We're coming up on 100K word count, so I'm glad you guys are all still here for it. It's been so much fun, and there's still so much more left to do.


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